


The Toymaker and the Widow

by cellorocket



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Adventure, F/M, Gen, Original Character(s), Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2014-03-20
Packaged: 2017-11-22 14:28:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 113,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cellorocket/pseuds/cellorocket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He whittles for the widow and her child; his sweet, sad widow," said Bombur smugly. "How is she his widow if he's still alive?" Bilbo wondered. "Because she's not my widow," Bofur cut in. "She's a widow. I have no claim to her, or anyone."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The Company of Thorin Oakenshield made camp not far out of the Shire on the first night of their quest, a fact with which Bilbo was moderately pleased. He surveyed the dwarves - his companions now - with proprietary interest, appreciating the ease with which they constructed camp and set about making supper, chatting amongst themselves as they worked.

The meal was most notable for the young kin of Thorin – Fíli and Kíli, Bilbo remembered after a moment searching for their names– amusing the rest of the company with increasingly rambunctious antics, which culminated in a game of makeshift darts, though won out with throwing knives and axes instead.

Fíli won, much to the chagrin of Kíli, who took to sulking at the edge of the camp with his bow, muttering that if the competition had been decided by that skill, he'd have bested his elder brother with absurd ease.

Well after the meal, when the rest of the company had begun to settle down and sink into sleep, Bilbo took the opportunity to study his new companions without fear of having scrutiny returned to himself. He was distracted, however, by the sound of whittling, threading just beneath the crackling of the campfire.

He turned and saw the dwarf named Bofur intent over a block of wood, working it patiently with his whittling knife until it began to take a vague shape of a pony. Beside him, Bombur dozed, though Bifur watched his cousin's progress tenderly, and Bilbo almost thought he saw a smile on his face (though it was quite possible he was distracted by the chunk of axe sticking out of Bifur's forehead).

Bilbo could contain his curiosity no longer. "What are you doing?" he asked Bofur.

"Whittling, can't you see?" came the whip-fast response, and Bofur shot him a cheeky grin. Beside him, Bifur grunted with what sounded like wordless amusement – altogether an odd thing to come from the otherwise taciturn dwarf. "Have you eyes, Mr. Bilbo?"

"Of course I have eyes," Bilbo said, a little irritated. "I only meant—"

"Aye, I know what you meant," Bofur said. "Only having a bit of fun."

"At my expense, of course."

"But not in mean spirit."

Bilbo was quiet for a moment, watching as Bofur whittled the wood with such skill that it surprised him; he had thought the three kinsman to be somewhat crude and crass, not descended of noble blood, like the rest of the company. "Are they for you?" he asked again.

Bombur snorted. "Of course not," he said, throwing a smug elbow into his brother's ribs.

"They could be!" Bofur retorted. "I like whittling."

"But they aren't," Bombur argued. "No use misleading the young master hobbit, now. He's owed the truth."

"What you think the truth, dear brother, and what _is_ the truth are not one in the same," Bofur said mildly, flicking Bombur with a shaving.

"Listen to him protest!" Bombur said, delightedly, and Bifur snorted again. "Protest too much, one would think, eh Mr. Bilbo?"

"So just tell him," Bofur said, and it was a surprise to hear a slight strain of annoyance in his voice; thus far Bofur had been nothing but affable, even to the point of grating

"No need to get upset."

"I'm not upset."

"Aye, you're not," Bombur said. "He whittles for the widow and her child; his sweet, sad widow."

"How is she his widow if he's still alive?" Bilbo wondered.

"Because she's not _my_ widow," Bofur cut in. "She's _a_ widow. I have no claim to her, or anyone."

"A lovely example of dwarven womanhood," Bombur teased, throwing another elbow into his brother's side. "Strong and stubborn, stout and fair. If only for that pallor, and that unfortunate hair."

"I like you, Bombur, but I will hit you if you don't stop talking," Bofur warned amicably.

As Bofur resumed work on the miniature pony and the rest of the camp fell into ponderous, sleeping silence, Bilbo realized that the dwarf had not truly denied his brother's claims. And he found himself wondering of this woman as the night lengthened, for he'd never seen a dwarven woman in his life, and at times he doubted they existed.

Before he fell asleep, he caught a flash of grin on Bofur's face, and the sight of it seemed to him to be almost tender.

* * *

Beneath the Blue Mountains lived the refugees of Erebor, displaced by Smaug the Terrible and broken by many years of wandering hardship. The dwarves of Ered Luin accepted their wayward kin as best as they were able, but the survivors were haunted by a wandering sense, a hollowness that comes from losing one's home. In their hearts burned the desire to reclaim what they had lost, more potent than any flame.

Among these exiles was a toymaker, by the name of Bofur. He had been driven from his home at a young age with his brother Bombur and cousin Bifur. As with other exiles of the Lonely Mountain, he struggled to make an honest living for himself in all manner of ways, but the crafts with which he was most proficient were the mining of ore and the craft of toys.

In the latter, he excelled and brought joy to many. For he had an easy, unassuming temperament, and mingled with his skill was good humor, regardless of any detriment.

So the years passed, and as the last of their kin, Bofur, Bombur, and Bifur lived together in a modest home beneath the Blue Mountains, each plying their trade and living out the long lives of their race. Indeed; Bofur had been young when his exile had begun – he'd been born to such a life, in fact– yet it seemed to him at times that his youth had been squandered living as a homeless drifter.

But he was not bitter, or hard of heart. He accepted his lot with a smile and a light word, and he worked diligently to bring the ease and joy that came so easily to those who struggled to find the same. Perhaps at times he could be blunt ("as a bat" Bombur liked to say), and he often delighted bringing the stuffy and high-nosed down to his level with a sharply honed sense of humor, but one could never accuse Bofur of meaning ill.

So began the last year of his exile, as every year since had passed; uneventful and mild. The day dawned as any other when he set off to his shop with Bifur in tow, offering greetings to any and all that he passed. Despite his lot, Bofur was happy to be alive, and not afraid to show it.

The previous night, he had remained awake until the fire had diminished to embers in its hearth, perfecting the batch of toys he meant to sell today, chief among them a model of a little dragon, its hide a sunny yellow streaked with blue, its teeth bared in a comical grimace. Bombur had not approved

"It'll ruffle their parents, all right," he'd said, his brows twitching.

"Every child wants a villain to slay with their toy warriors," Bofur had argued lightly. "What better villain than a dragon?"

"Just saying a troll might be better," said Bombur. "Less personal. Likely their parents remember the flight from Erebor if they be like us."

Bofur had shrugged. "It'll give them some satisfaction to break it, then," he'd said simply. He did not care what the child did with the toys he toiled over for days, as long as it brought them happiness. And in that manner, it was decided.

There was a usual crowd of children that hovered near his stall where he plied his wares, and they drew their hassled parents by turns to collect them. More often than not, a pair of pleading young eyes would do the selling for him, for not even the stubborn hearts of dwarves could resist the look of unshed tears in their children's eyes.

Bofur had no children himself, nor a wife. What dwarf women there were often married men of renown and import – warriors and leaders, dwarves of noble blood and birth. He was of an unimportant line with a humble profession, and therefore uninteresting to any women that might have been otherwise enticed. Most days this did not bother him – he was happy with his craft, which provided him ample opportunity to bring joy to those who most needed it – but he would be untrue if he claimed to never be lonely at times.

Bifur arranged his crafts on the stall with his usual eloquence – which was to say, as silently as a dead chill. The fragment of the axe embedded in his skull glinted in the light of the forge, winking like a star above his dark and furtive gaze. Many years ago, Bofur had stood at the side of Bombur as the healer pronounced Bifur hardy and able, and said with luck he would survive, though he would always bear a souvenir of the orc that had nearly cloven his skull in two, had it not been so thick.

Bofur suspected at least a fraction of the popularity of their shop had to do with the fascination children held for Bifur, who was a fearsome, odd figure in their eyes, but also a testament to dwarven toughness and ability. For the most part, Bofur left his cousin alone, only pausing when Bifur laid out a monstrous figure of an orc, resplendent with scars deeply entrenched in its hide, to say nothing of its wide, animal eyes.

"Might be a tad grotesque for children," Bofur commented mildly, arranging his wares in orderly little rows.

Bifur's response to this was to set another like toy beside its brother, equally horrifying, before shooting a meaningful glance at Bofur's toy dragon.

"They're hardly the same," Bofur exclaimed, picking up the dragon and brandishing it in his elder cousin's face. "This is a funny toy. Have you ever seen a dragon with a mug like this? Yours, on the other hand, look like the stuff of nightmares."

Bifur was not amused. He placed the monstrous orcs at the front of his stall with an air of irritated resolution.

"All right, all right. Keep your awful creatures. We'll see who pulls the bigger till," Bofur said, grinning.

This was mostly an empty challenge, and the both of them knew it. Despite Bifur's monstrous wares – or perhaps because of them – he often sold twice as much as Bofur's funny little creations. The mood of the year carried over even to children, and as things grew darker beyond the Blue Mountains, the children would rather slay the creatures that plagued their parents' worries rather than dally with carvings of benign woodland animals.

Indeed, as he gazed on the dragon, he realized it was a bit of a departure for him. While funny and odd enough to be considered one of his carvings, it was still a fearsome, tender subject. Perhaps it was his way to skewer that which was dark and difficult with humorous nonsense. It didn't work for everyone, but it made him happy enough.

As usual, Bifur sold his entire stock by midday, and with a grunt he shouldered his pack and set out for home. Bofur waved amicably as he departed, then took quick count of what remained of his stock. Some of the nicer carvings had sold, but the bulk of it remained, as did the funny dragon. Perhaps now that Bifur had gone, he would fare better.

The day passed as most do. Children flocked around his stall, running their small fingers over the polished wood and bright paint of the toys, innocent desire bright in their eyes. Bofur often fared better with Bifur standing guard, because at times like these when a little child would look up to him without their parents anywhere near, he'd be more likely to give away the object of their desire than he would be to sell it later.

A group of young boys flocked around him, pulling at his coat with grubby fingers. "Do you have a story for us today, Mr. Bofur?" they chorused in unison, yanking so hard that he thought his old coat would tear in their hands.

"A story, you say?" Bofur made a show of hemming and hawing, stroking his chin in a pensive manner. "I don't know, lads. I seem to have exhausted my store of stories."

"No!" they wailed.

"Just what are you needing my stories for, anyway?"

"We're bored!" one of them said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. The others nodded in agreement.

"Bored! And what a blessing it would to be so!" Bofur leaned down so that he was nearly at their level. "I can't remember the last time I had the privilege of being bored!"

"But it's awful!" another wailed.

"Here, now; I'm sure Bombur has a few tales to share."

"His stories are boring too!"

Bofur clutched his heart, making a great show of being wounded. "Ooch. My poor, sweet brother. His only crime being blessed with peaceful sensibilities!"

"His stories never have any dragons," the first boy complained. "Or scary beasties."

"So you're looking for a scary beastie story, are you?"

They all nodded in fervent unison.

He made one last act of reluctance before shooting them all a grin, and the boys cheered as he leaned even closer, dropping his voice to a mysterious hush. "There once was a dragon who –"

"We've heard about Smaug before!" the first boy said, arms crossed over his small chest.

"Ooh, are you sure this is about Smaug, then?" Bofur asked them seriously.

"They're always about Smaug!"

"Didn't you tell me you wanted a scary beastie story?"

Eager nods.

"Then allow me to regale you with one about a dragon, even more fearsome and terrible than Smaug, if you please."

"More terrible?" one of the boys breathed.

"Aye. Truly the most fearsome dragon ever to have lived. Name of Guarr – Guarr the Vicious. A roiling, boiling cauldron of flaming death, he was, with a great yellow hide, so that if you saw him streak across the sky you would mistake him for the sun."

The boys leaned closer, and Bofur knew that he'd caught their imaginations, wrangled and tamed like a beast itself. He shaped the image of the dragon between his hands, much like he shaped its miniature approximation from wood, and the boys hung onto his every word, their eyes growing wider as he spoke.

"He was greedy, as dragons are, and viciously cruel. He roasted entire villages for sport, and it was said that fearful screaming of those he immolated was like the sweetest music to his ears, and often brought him no greater pleasure. A real bastard, by all accounts."

The boys looked horrified, crowding around Bofur's stool and clutching at his coat when he stopped to take a breath.

"How many did he kill?" one of the boys murmured.

"At least five hundred. No, maybe six." Bofur paused for dramatic effect. "Maybe ten thousand!"

"No!" the boys gasped.

"Aye. He was a real bloodthirsty bastard, and it wasn't long before our ancestors got it in their heads that they were going to take down this bastard of a drake, roast him like they'd been roasting their allies and kin. They set their armies against Guarr, but the dragon made easy work of them all; didn't matter if it was one or one thousand that marched against him.

"And just when it seemed as if things were truly hopeless, they happened on a plan, truly by chance. For among them was a humble bard."

"What?!" the boys squawked. "Not a fearsome warrior?"

"They can't all be fearsome warriors," Bofur said knowingly, tapping his chin. "You make the same mistake mighty Guarr made, for when the bard approached his hoard, the dragon only laughed – laughed as much as a dragon can, that is. He was offended that the mighty dwarven armies would deign to send such a lowly example of them to meet him in combat. He was preparing to roast that humble bard when the bard spoke. 'You've proven yourself mighty and powerful, Guarr, yet I confess to being unimpressed overall.'"

"'You'll find I care little for impressing you, bard,' Guarr snarled, but the bard was not deterred. 'I challenge you in a subject with which you've proven to be thus far insufficient,' said the humble bard – perhaps a bit stupidly, you might think.

"And thus the bard and the dragon traded verse, back and forth, for above all things the dragon was full of pride, and could not bear the thought of being inferior in any way to such a lowly creature. The bard sang, and the dragon roared for my long hours, until at last the humble bard defeated Guarr in this most humble of affairs. But Guarr's true defeat was at hand, for while the bard distracted the dragon, he'd given the dwarven legions a chance to sneak up on the dragon and destroy him once and for all!"

"And the bard?" breathed one of the boys.

"Ah, well, at the moment of his triumph, Guarr lost his temper and cooked the humble bard in the blink of an eye. Melted his flesh right off his bones, silenced his pretty voice, and stilled his nimble fingers forever."

The boys were crestfallen. "What was the point, if he was just going to die?" the eldest boy said bitterly.

"Though he was foolish and humble, and ultimately died a foolish and untimely death, he changed the course of the war, saving many lives in doing so! Supposedly that's what we all dream of, isn't it?"

The eldest thought of this for a moment. "I suppose," he said slowly. "If he hadn't distracted the dragon, who knows how many more would have died?"

"Exactly," Bofur said. "There are many senseless and unfortunate things that happen in this world, but I find there's always a positive side to them. Sometimes takes a bit of looking for, is all." Bofur smiled at the boys, who looked considerably more thoughtful, and considerably less bored than they had a few moments ago. "You best get on. Your parents are looking for you."

With one last look at his shop, the boys picked up and scurried away, slowly resuming their excitable chatter as they went. Bofur watched them go with a slight air of regret. The day was nearly done and he'd not sold nearly as much as he needed to. They'd survive, Bifur, Bomber, and he; for Bifur more than made up where Bofur failed. At times, though, he often wished he could support more than he often did.

Across the market he saw the smiths exit the great forge, ambling off in the direction of their homes for the evening meal. He took the dragon carving off the table and ran his calloused thumb over the fine edge of its wing, unfurled as if itching to take to the sky. Its silly grimace seemed even more comical, then. More the fool, he; for spending so much time on an undesirable toy.

And that's when he saw the little girl. Hiding behind one of the stalls, she peered up at him with a childlike mixture of fascination and fear. He smiled and beckoned her over. He expected her to cower further behind the crate, but instead she lifted her little head in an unmistakable gesture of bravery and strode over to him as if she'd only been waiting for him to notice her.

"Was it true, sir?" she asked him in a quiet voice.

Bofur craned around, making a show of searching over his shoulders. "I don't see any 'sirs' around here, lass."

"I only mean to be respectful," she said, slightly cowed.

"And I only mean to say I'm not some lord or noble that's owed such respect," Bofur said, leaning down to her level.

"Sure you are," the little girl argued stubbornly. "Being a lord or noble doesn't have anything to do with it, either."

Bofur laughed aloud. "What a thing to say. What's your name, lass?"

"Riva," the girl said, holding out her hand.

He shook it. "And I'm Bofur. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Was it true, Mr. Bofur? The story about the dragon and the bard?"

Bofur shrugged. "It may be. In some form or another."

"That's not a real answer," she said, frowning.

"It is, indeed. Perhaps it's not the answer you wanted," he said seriously. "But it's an answer, just the same."

The little girl named Riva said nothing, instead casting her gaze to Bofur's table, examining the toys he had on display with a critical eye. "You made these?" she asked slowly.

"Aye. Likely I'll have to make some more, as these aren't too popular." He smiled at her. "I could make a nice dolly for you, if you like."

"I don't like dollies," Riva said, a frown etching in her face like stone.

"More's the pity, that," Bofur said easily. "I can make all kinds."

Riva's oddly stern gaze softened slightly as she considered him. "What kinds?"

"All kinds. Any kinds, really."

But Riva was not convinced. Instead, she fixed her gaze on the figure of the yellow dragon, its teeth bared up at her in an ultimately ridiculous fashion. "Was this the dragon from your story?"

"It might be."

"But the dragon from your story was fearsome. This dragon is silly."

"And who ever said it couldn't be one and the same?"

"Then it wouldn't be fearsome," Riva said.

"Maybe that's the point! Who could look at old Guarr here and fear him, even when thinking about all the nasty, evil things he did to our poor ancestors? Instead you laugh at him, and then you find you aren't quite as sad when faced with the rest."

"But that could be dangerous, too," Riva said softly. "If you don't fear when you should."

"Aye, well," Bofur said, looking away. "Likely this is the silly rambling of a silly dwarf, so take it for what little it's worth."

"Riva!" came a voice from across the market, cutting through the diminishing din like a blade through flesh. A young dwarf woman forced her way through the crowd with a ferociously intent expression on her face – a remarkable face, by Bofur's reckoning. For he had little experience or inclination in such matters, but he thought that the angle of her straight nose was lovely, as was her bright hair and dark eyes. He quickly arranged his own features into a friendly smile, but she was not affected.

"Riva," said the woman sternly. "You mustn't run off like that."

"I came to no harm, Mama," said the girl, though she lowered her head, cowed.

"You could have," said the woman, with a hard sideways look at Bofur.

"Mr. Bofur meant no harm either," Riva said, and her voice quivered with offense on his behalf. "He told me a story until you found me."

"Then it was good of him to keep an eye on you until I found you again," said the woman, with a grudging look of appreciation at Bofur. "I thank you."

He bowed to her. "Was no trouble at all. Your daughter is pleasant company."

"She can be, when she has a mind to be." She took her daughter's hand firmly. "Put that back and come along."

The look of sudden heartbreak on the little girl's face nearly forced the words from Bofur's lips without his permission. Or, perhaps, there was a part of him that sought to impress this stern, taciturn woman, when such an impulse should have been wholly unnatural. "Please," he said quickly. "She can keep it."

"At what cost?" said the woman suspiciously.

"No cost at all. Keep it with the story," he said to Riva, folding her little hands around the dragon, and the sight of her happiness brought warmth to his heart. "Perhaps you'll remember it this way."

"Thank you, Mr. Bofur," Riva said, her voice hushed, nearly overcome with reverence for the little unwanted dragon, grinning stupidly up at them all.

Her mother looked at him as if for the first time, her gaze wide as if she had never seen the shape of him before, and could no more make sense of him as she could the potential of the future. Her brows furrowed over those dark, beautiful eyes. "You have an odd way of doing business," she said slowly.

"I find a smile a much finer reward," he said simply, shrugging.

"You cannot buy bread with a smile. Or put clothes on your back with mere words."

He nearly laughed aloud. "You think I'm some head-in-the-clouds blunderer, do you? This is not my only means of employ, and if it was I'd have likely starved by now." He shrugged down at his sad little toys. "There's little demand for what I make, so I make do how I can. But those who do like what I make find happiness from it, and that fulfills me."

"You do this with your day of rest, then?" she wondered of him.

"Aye, I do. And a fine way to spend my resting day it is."

The woman said nothing for a long moment, and indeed for a moment Bofur wondered if she'd fallen into a state of fugue. He was about to prod her when she seemed to come back to herself, and with a curt nod to him, she tugged on her daughter's little hand and urged the both of them along. And there was a small, bleak moment where he believed he would never see this odd stranger again, and though it was odd, such speculation struck him as pain.

"May I know your name?" he called to her.

She made to continue on, but her daughter – bless her – dragged her little heels into the ground and refused to budge until the woman had craned around and grudgingly offered him an answer. "Rikke," she said, and with one last unwilling look, she fled into the direction of what Bofur assumed to be her home.

He resumed the dull drudge of his routine as perhaps an imposter might; dimly, with little interest or engagement. He gathered the toys that had not sold and set out to the home he shared with his elder brother and cousin, mindful that he was among the last to return. Bombur greeted him warmly when he came through the door, and even Bifur grunted in an enthusiastic way – or as enthusiastic as one could manage with a head wound.

"You're just in time," Bombur said, grinning over his shoulder as Bofur came through the door. "Smell good, doesn't it?"

"What does?" Bofur wondered.

"Are you concussed? Your favorite," Bombur said, one hand clutching a cast iron ladle. Bofur wondered paradoxically if he'd ever seen his brother without that ladle, for he seemed to cling to it even in his sleep, to say nothing of his daily work.

"Ah – aye, it does," Bofur managed. "Truly. Well done, and all that."

He was remote as a star for the rest of the evening, failing to meet his brother in conversation, and even the worried furrow of his cousin's brows did not penetrate through the haze that had fallen over him. When he slept, it was fitfully. When he dreamed, he saw flashes of grief that were altogether unfamiliar and as achingly potent as anything he had felt.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, the company resumed their journey before the sun had risen properly. Bilbo had slept fitfully through the night, nettled by his speculations, and so it came as an unpleasant surprise when he was shaken awake by Bofur, the sky still dark above them.

 “Come on,” Bofur said quietly, clapping Bilbo on the shoulder. “The illustrious leader of our company has deemed it time to move along.”

“For all that’s good and –“ Bilbo muttered, pushing himself upright. He was hardly a lazy hobbit, but Thorin and Gandalf insisted on moving the company along at an unholy hour, where self-aware creatures were not meant to tread or go about their business. The darkness of night was for skulking villains, drifters, and thieves, in Bilbo’s humble opinion, and he wanted no part in any of it.

“Here now,” said Bofur, grinning in his eminently frustrating manner. “Don’t be put out.”

“I’m not put out,” Bilbo grumbled getting to his feet and pounding his uncooperative bedroll into submission until he’d wedged it in his pack. “Hardly slept at all, rocks in my back, screeching, twittering things in the night –“

“Ooh, aye; those would be the bats,” Bofur said as he lit his pipe. ”They like making nests in your hair, and they’ll suck the blood right out of your neck if you give them half a chance.”

“What?!” Bilbo clapped a hand to his neck, which was suddenly much too bare for his liking.

“Didn’t you know?” Bofur asked him, making a great show of being innocently surprised. “Ooh, Mr. Baggins, you’ll have to stick close if you don’t want to get swept away and drained dry by the bats. Nasty little beasts they are, too; like blood-sucking rats with wings.”

“Pay no attention to Bofur,” Gandalf said, surveying the scene with eyes that seemed to glitter with too much amusement for Bilbo’s liking. “He’s rather fond of the sound of his own voice.”

“Well, wouldn’t you be, if your voice was like mine?” Bofur asked the wizard, blowing a ring of smoke into the chill air. “Crying babies calm when I sing, and the hard-hearted soften.”

Behind him, Bifur snorted into his bowl of mash. “I’d hardly call what you’re doing calming,” Bilbo said imperiously.

“Then you must be a special case, aren’t you?” Bofur insisted. “I won’t hear another word about it.” He craned around his shoulders before fixing Bilbo with a serious look. “Though I would watch for the bats, Mr. Bilbo. They can smell fear half the forest away, and they will find you if you fear them.”

Bilbo had the sense that Bofur no longer spoke of merely bats, but perhaps even more dangerous things that were summoned by the mere presence of fear alone. He made a valiant effort at not being afraid, but one look at the darkened woods behind them and he felt that fear curdle somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach. Had he been hungry, before? Now it seemed as if he’d never be hungry again.

But Bofur drew close. “You don’t have much to fear, Mr. Bilbo,” he said, and this time when he clapped Bilbo on the shoulder, it was with some small degree of comfort. “Likely you’ll run into trouble enough before we take back Erebor, but you won’t be alone.”

And despite himself, Bilbo was comforted.

The Company made short work of breakfast and dismantled the camp before mounting their ponies and resuming their journey. As morning dawned, the group grew livelier, trading barbs and fragments of stories, of which Bilbo had no context, thus they sounded even more fantastic and strange than they would have normally.

He stuck close to Bofur, for despite his proclivity toward japery and other nonsense, he was surprisingly good company, and even Bilbo considered the possibility that he was good company because of his light and easy manner. During a lull, he guided his pony closer to Bofur and craned over, unable to contain his curiosity. “Why did you decide to join Thorin’s company?” he asked.

“Me? No special reason.” Bofur shrugged, before fixing Bilbo with that teasing smirk he was beginning to recognize quite well. “I heard the beer would be free.”

Bilbo had been prepared to let this nonsense answer lay when he caught sight of Bifur, whose brows were pulled even lower over his dark gaze than usual. And it struck Bilbo that perhaps he’d heard something untrue, and expressed his disappointment in the only way he was able.

So Bilbo wondered, then, what was it that his strange ally would have to lie about?

\--

The next day, Bofur resumed the workweek as he had many before, heading off with the other miners before the sun had properly risen and working until long after it had set. It was mindless, physical work, and though he’d never resented it, for the first time he found himself actively thankful for a task that he could throw himself into without the burden of thought.

Yet still, thoughts creeped around the edges of his haze of productivity; the oddly compelling symmetry of her face, a flash of wounded eyes, the depth there of her stare, and the feeling that with only a glance she could see through his skin down to his very bones, to his faults and flaws, his failures. As he mined, he found himself wondering what she would look like when she smiled. He was sure there would be no more beautiful sight in the world.

It took Bombur three days to catch onto Bofur’s odd mood. One night by the fire, as Bofur played a wishful melody on his flute, Bombur rounded on him, unable to keep his misgivings to himself any longer.

“What has gotten into you?” he demanded.

“What? Nothing!”

“I’ve never heard anything out of you but reels and jigs and music merry enough to drive you mad, yet for the last few days you’ve sat by the fire and practically mourned with that instrument, and it makes my stomach hurt. What’s happened?”

“Nothing!” Bofur said again.

“You’re melancholy.”

“I’m really not!”

“Moping around like some moony love-struck nance.”

“Now, hold on --“

“Don’t bother telling me I’m wrong,” Bombur said with uncharacteristic sternness. “Spit it out.”

“You _are_ wrong!” Bofur interjected before Bombur could say another word. “Making such a fuss over something so ridiculous. If you don’t like thoughtful music, just say so instead of having a fit.”

Bombur was not convinced, but he turned back toward dinner and said not another word. Bofur thought that the matter had been settled when he caught his cousin’s stare, and though he might have put Bombur off the scent, he hadn’t fooled Bifur. These days, it seemed like nothing could.

In truth, perhaps Bofur was melancholy. He thought of grieving, taciturn Rikke, and a selfish and small part of his heart grieved for himself just as he grieved for her sadness, as she was undoubtedly married, caring for her husband’s child. Perhaps if she had been bright and happy, he could have put all thought of her from his mind, at least secure in the knowledge that she did not suffer. But for whatever reasons, she lingered in sadness, and for reasons even more remote, her sadness affected him after only one chance meeting.

He thought to himself that if this woman – admittedly no better than a stranger – had been his wife, he’d never stop seeking ways to bring her joy.

Against all logic, he found himself looking forward to his day off from the mines, where he would set up shop beside his cousin and peddle his toys. Admittedly, he usually looked forward to that day in the week, but now he hoped that Riva would seek out his stall again, and bring Rikke looking.

So he affected his old self and resumed work in the mines, playing happy songs and filling his home with empty talk, though he sank deeper into thoughtfulness when the subject of Rikke resurfaced. More than once, he lost command of his fingers while he worked a block of wood into a toy, and hours later a crude likeness of her stared up at him from his upturned hands.

He threw the figure into the fire before his brother could see.

Market day arrived, and he and Bifur set up their stall with customary efficiency. He told stories to the milling children, speaking clearly over the sounds of the forge across the enclosure, and he did modest business – better than the week before, surely – though always he kept an eye toward the market where he’d seen Riva appear, peeking from behind a basket.

As always, Bifur sold his stock by midday, but instead of packing up and leaving for home, Bifur arranged some of Bofur’s wares on his stall and settled in.

“Ah, Bifur, there’s no need for that, now,” said Bofur. “I won’t give them away this week.”

But Bifur was not moved. He made a rough sound under his breath and crossed his arms over his stout chest, and his intent was clear; he would not move a single inch from his spot until the day was done.

Bofur shrugged, though he felt unease grip his heart. “Right. Well . . . thank you, then.”

Many hours later, they were putting away what was left over of their wares when Bofur caught sight of Riva making her way straight to his stall, her arms swinging with confidence often only found in children. When she caught sight of him, she broke out into a half-trot until she stood only an armspan away, leaning eagerly over his toys.

“Good day, Mr. Bofur,” she said, hopping a little on the balls of her feet.

“Good day, lass.” He craned around to the bustling market, searching for a pair of figures, but he saw none. “Your parents not at market today?”

“Mama is working,” said Riva, staring at her feet. “And I have no father.”

“Well, you must have; otherwise you wouldn’t be standing here, would you?”

A ghost of a smile curved her lips. “Not like that. I mean he’s dead.”

He said nothing for a moment, for there was a vast range of sentiments that would be inappropriate or insensitive. When confronted with a difficult situation, it was his instinct to say something outlandish and ridiculous to break the tension, yet there was nothing larger or more difficult than death of kin, and in his estimation, it deserved careful respect.

“I’m sorry, lass,” he said quietly. It did not even occur to him to be pleased for himself at the news.

“I’m not,” said Riva, shrugging. “I never knew him. Mama didn’t like him much, either.” Her tone indicated that the matter was closed, so he let it go. As if only just noticing him, her eyes flickered over to Bifur, drifting up to the chunk of axe that was embedded in his skull, before darting away – perhaps conscious of staring too long and being rude. “What’s your name?” she asked politely.

“That’s Bifur,” said Bofur, clapping his cousin on the back.

“Can he . . . talk?”

“Only bits of Khuzdul, I’m afraid,” said Bofur. “But he can understand you well enough. And he always seemed to get his point across, at least to me.”

For his part, Bifur inclined his head to the little girl, and she returned the gesture as solemnly as an old judge.

At the moment, it struck Bofur as acutely sad that such a small child should be so somber, and he wondered what had transpired in her short life that had bred in her such a grim heart. Indeed – he was likely a century older than her at the least, and more of a child than an actual child. He smiled and leaned over his table, taking a carving in his hands. “I made something for you,” he said, scooting closer.

“For me especially?”

“Aye.” He passed it to her carefully, mindful of the delicate corners and edges, the smooth surface that had taken him two evenings to paint. “Do you know who it is?”

Riva peered closer, her eyes widening in recognition after a brief moment. “Aylá the maiden-smith!”

“Ah, so you know the story then?”

“It’s one of my favorites! One of Mama’s favorites, too.”

“You both have fine taste, then.” He rubbed his chin. “I thought to myself how best to bring a smile to the face of a girl who has no use for dollies or the like, and this is what I landed on. May it please you to have as much as it pleased me to make.”

She ran her small finger over the edge of Aylá’s hammer, which he had painstakingly painted with silver and white, etching miniscule runes alone the side, and if one had eyes as good as Bofur’s, they would see the inscription ‘ _the strength of Aulë in me’_  in sturdy yet fine script.“Thank you, Mr. Bofur. It’s the nicest thing I’ve ever owned in my life.”

He waved away her praise, a little embarrassed. “Ah, well. It’ll manage for now. Perhaps I’ll make you a better one when my hands steady.”

Riva dug around one of her pockets. “How much do I owe you for it?”

“Please!” Bofur gasped, scandalized. “I wouldn’t dream of charging you for a gift. It’s in very poor taste, you know.”

“But you worked hard on it,” said Riva, frowning seriously. “How long did it take you to make?”

“Hardly any time at all,” said Bofur, waving one of his hands dismissively. “A few hours.”

He was surprised to hear Bifur speak for the first time in many weeks; a scraping, gravelly sound so unlike the voice he’d used before the orc that nearly killed him. “ **Ahyrunul,** ” said he, scowling deeply.

“I am not!” Bofur said, playing at outrage. Though in actuality, he knew his cousin to be right; he’d spent nearly the entire week on the little carving, perfecting the features and the pose, until the likeness of Aylá bore the hammer in an upswing, as if about to strike an anvil. The inscription and runes had taken him long hours beside the fire, squinting until he thought he’d go blind.

“What did he say?” Riva asked him with unabashed fascination in her voice.

“That I am truthful to the point of being a fool,” Bofur pushed the figure of Aylá into the girl’s hands in a final way. “I’m not in the habit of charging for gifts, and I don’t intend to start.”

In that way, the matter was settled. Riva traced one small finger over Aylá’s likeness before looking away, a little shyly. “Would you tell me the story?” she asked in a small voice.

“Here, now: I thought you said this was one of your favorites. By rights you should be able to tell me!”

“But you have such an interesting way of telling stories,” Riva wheedled, twisting the figure of Aylá in her hands. “I looked forward to hearing one all week.”

“Ooh, laying on the guilt a little thick, aren’t you?” he teased, holding one hand to his chest dramatically, as if she had pierced his heart. “All right, then. If you want to hear it so badly, who am I to refuse?”

He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard Bifur make a low sound of amusement at the back of his throat. He shot his cousin a cheeky grin before launching into the tale with all the drama and verve that was his custom.

“Many hundreds of years ago, there was a daughter born to a household full of sons. She was the youngest and smallest, and a girl besides, so her father gave her little thought or care. Her mother was a sickly woman, and not long after the daughter was born, she succumbed and passed into dust, as those dour historians like to say. Because of this, Aylá grew to adulthood as an island; an unwanted child amidst four strapping sons who seemed destined to bring glory to their father’s name.

“Their name was one known for its fine craftsmen and warriors, and as they grew, the four sons grew proficient in the craft of weapons and armor, and the use of them in battle. But never did they distinguish themselves as masters, as their father had hoped. It seemed inevitable that their name would pass into obscurity, were it not for Aylá.”

“She took up where her brothers failed,” said Riva, her eyes bright with pride.

“Aye. Her father accused her of bringing shame onto his name and his line, but Aylá’s only motivation was of love – for her father, and for the craft. For where her brothers were driven to seek perfection by pride and greed, she truly loved the act of creation, shaping something strong and beautiful in service of her people.

“In other words, she was not like most,” Bofur said seriously. “It was said that her works were invariably without fault or flaw. The weapons she forged could rend and cleave almost as if by a thought alone, and armor she made could not be pierced by anything but only the surest strikes. She grew in renown, but even at the height of her popularity she never asked to be praised. She only wanted to work and to serve.”

“She doesn’t even sound like a real person,” said Riva.

Bofur craned down to her level. “I thought you liked Aylá the maiden-smith!”

“I do! Just that she doesn’t sound like a real person who lived.”

“How is that, now?”

“Wasn’t she ever angry? Or sad that her family hated her?”

Bofur tapped his chin. “It’s likely. I didn’t think you’d want to hear those parts.”

“Those are the parts that make it good!” Riva said, with sternness that Bofur would not be able to manage even now, though he was long grown and she was just a child.

“Then I stand corrected,” Bofur grinned. “Though her crafts were as close to perfection as we mere mortals can come, she was prone to trusting blindly those who meant her harm, in addition to being melancholy and reticent. She worked many long hours instead of collaborating with her fellows, and she sent many lovelorn dwarves on their way without ever so much as sparing them so much as a passing glance, to their unending dismay.” Bofur’s grin widened. “It was said she was quite beautiful for our kind, though I’ll leave that your scruples to decide.”

Riva crossed her arms over her small chest and attempted to maintain her stern reproach; though he saw her lips twitch against a grin. “They would say she was, to make the story more like legend.”

“It’s certainly been long enough for it to be seen as such,” Bofur said. “Here, now; didn’t you want to hear the end?”

Riva’s little grin faded. “Yes,” she said softly. “Though sometimes I wish it would end when everyone loved her, and she filled the world with everything that she made.”

“If that had been the story’s end, I don’t know that anyone would have cared much about Aylá. We’re quite fond of tragedy in our stories, you know.”

“They would so,” Riva argued. “She was a fine smith in her own right, without the tragedy.”

“Aye, you’re right. There came a time when the dwarves went to war against a great host of orcs, more terrible than any they’d met in battle before. Aylá the maiden-smith was commissioned to armor the entirety of the dwarven forces almost as a jest, for the other smiths were jealous of Aylá’s popularity, and they assumed that she would fail when provided with such a monumental task. But she supplied the armies with armor that is revered today for its perfection; indeed, when you study to be a smith, you examine the way she crafted her pieces for each intricate detail, and the measure with which you can replicate her technique marks your own skill.

“Anyway, because of her effort, the dwarves went on to win their battles against the orcs without a single loss!”

“That can’t be true,” Riva said, her brow twitching low.

“You cruel child! Your doubt has broken my heart and sapped my will to continue,” Bofur teased, making a show of great pain.

Riva flapped her hands at him. “You exaggerate with the ease of breathing.”

Bifur actually snorted, and when he turned Bofur caught a glimpse of a small grin on his cousin’s face. “Fine, laugh at me. I’ll just keep the ending to myself.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“You already know how it ends! I haven’t a clue what you need me for,” Bofur pointed out.

But the girl pressed her lips together and gestured for him to continue, and he found he would not refuse her.

“Now, Aylá’s father had grown very bitter over the years, but he tolerated his unwanted daughter’s success because he believed that she would bring glory to his name, when so far her older brothers had failed on this count. But when our armies returned, the King called for Aylá specifically, bringing her to the front to stand at his side. And in front of all – lord and layperson, alike – he proclaimed that they were saved by Aylá, daughter of Aulë! They called her Aylá, Hand of Mahal, and celebrated her without recognizing the name of her father.

“You can imagine that bastard was furious. He decided that moment that this was the last offense he would bear on Aylá’s behalf. In his greed and madness, he believed that the birth of Aylá was the cause of his misfortunes, and if she had never existed, he would not have been brought so low. So he laid in wait, and when she returned to his house, he stuck a dagger between her ribs and gutted her like a beast.

“In the end, though, Aylá’s father got what was coming to him. The king cast out he and his sons, and today we don’t even remember their names, unless in relation to Aylá herself. Fitting punishment for such a prideful blighter, don’t you think?”

“It would have been better if he’d just destroyed himself,” said Riva.

“He did, don’t you know?”

“I mean, before he’d killed Aylá.”

“Well, yes,” said Bofur. “You’re very right.”

“So do you have a moral for this story?” Riva asked him expectantly.

“How would you know all my stories have morals?”

“Most stories for children do,” she said easily.

“Listen to you; world weary at how old?”

“Seventeen,” she said, scuffing the ground a bit.

“You want a moral, then?” Bofur shrugged. “I don’t know. It seems an odd choice, to tell you to follow your passions regardless of what they might be, damn the consequences, when speaking of Aylá, since following hers got her killed at a nice and tragic young age.”

“But . . . ?”

“But I like to think she lived a full life in that short time she had. Maybe she did a lot more living than one who was twice her age, but squandered their whole life being angry and bitter and withholding the things that gave them joy.” He grinned down at her. “That’ll do for now, won’t it?”

“That’s a popular moral with you,” Riva said in her frighteningly astute way. Beside him, Bifur snorted.

“It’s a good one,” Bofur argued teasingly. “It’s one more people could do to listen to.”

Riva craned around, and Bofur notice her expression crumpled when she surveyed the mostly empty marketplace, the forge long since abandoned for the evening mean and subsequent journey to the taverns. “What is it?” he asked her.

“Mama was supposed to be here by now,” she said quietly, shifting from foot to foot. “I thought I would come back because – well, I thought she would come back.”

“You said she was working?”

Riva nodded. “I’d go look for her, but I don’t like the Crooked Hammer.”

Bofur felt his gut drop to the floor, a sick twisting that made him feel slightly nauseous. The Crooked Hammer was a tavern outside of the mountain, and it was famous for its rough clientele – travelers passing through, guests and other mysterious folk with no ties to anywhere, and often with nothing to lose. Combined with the stout brews the Hammer liked to serve, the atmosphere often grew outright dangerous.

It was ultimately a foolish decision, one that was swayed by feeling and not logic. He preferred to drink with his fellows in the various taverns in the mountain, and as a rule he did not seek out trouble. He wasn’t a warrior. He’d never had much use for fighting – a sharp tongue and biting remark often served his purposes better. But he could not ignore the odd sense of foreboding at the circumstances, never mind that his concern should have been much less personal than it was.

He stood, and Bifur stood as well. “You go home,” he said to Riva. “I’ll find your mother.”

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

The fourth day east of the Shire, it rained. Not a refreshing spring rain, the kind that comes down gently and makes gardens bloom, but a fierce deluge that whipped the trees and grasses sideways and stung Bilbo’s face like tiny freezing blades, only a breath away from breaking skin. He was soaked to his very bones, shivering so badly that his teeth chattered uncontrollably, and his fingers had long since frozen on the reins of his pony, lashed red and bone white by the cold.

He couldn’t remember last being so miserable, and he’d slept outside in the dirt for three nights now.

Gandalf had shrugged off entreaties to affect the weather, grumbling that he was not that kind of wizard, and he wouldn’t have done anything about it even if he was. Bilbo thought that was a fine answer when you had a nice, rainproof cloak.  He was frozen in his saddle like some absurd statue of a fool – a fool is what he was, and he should have never have left Bag End, not when the journey involved freezing to death and drowning in the rain and being the butt of every joke these confounded dwarves uttered –

“All right there, Mr. Bilbo?” called Bofur, bringing his pony around.

“Do I look all right to you?” Bilbo ground out from between clenched teeth, his shoulders hiked nearly up to his ears, shivering in his saddle.

“Actually, you look quite a lot like a drowned rat,” Bofur said amicably.

Bilbo could have spat knives. “Did you want something, Bofur, or were you only interested in tormenting me? Because if it’s the latter, I must say it’s at a most inappropriate time.”

Bofur smirked. “Actually, I thought I’d offer you my cloak. Seeing as you don’t have one and all.”

It took Bilbo a moment to remember that he was freezing and drenched, and a cloak would be a great help. “I – thank you,” he said, taken aback. “I mean -- don’t you need it?”

Bofur shrugged, prodding his pipe to encourage the embers to life. “Ah, well I have my hat, you know, and it keeps my head nice and dry. And I reckon I can manage the cold better than you can, Mr. Bilbo. No offense meant.”

“Er – none taken,” said Bilbo, and he accepted the proffered cloak gratefully, wrapping himself snuggly inside.

“Must say, you don’t seem like the sort who would be caught dead in the wild without being obnoxiously prepared,” Bofur commented absently, tipping his hat so the rainwater caught in the back brim trickled out.

“Yes, well, I’ve never been on an adventure before,” Bilbo said with as much pride as he could manage. “I’m not an expert at overland travel.”

“You surely are not,” Bofur snorted. “But top marks for effort, Mr. Bilbo.”

“You enjoy making light of me.”

Bilbo realized belatedly that he’d said something significant to Bofur, for the mocking smile slid off his face, and for a moment it was as if the dwarf no longer rode beside him but resided instead in some faraway place, now only kept alive by memory.

Bilbo cleared his throat, uncomfortable. “Did I say something --?”

“Ah? No, not really,” said Bofur, shaking his head and causing another deluge of rainwater to drip down his back. “Just at times you remind me of someone. Just a little, but just enough.”

“The widow?” Bilbo asked eagerly.

Bofur neither confirmed nor denied this. “She could be just as much of a grouch as you,” he was saying, almost to himself. “A real temper on her, and she never was much a fan of deviating from her plans, her little orderly lines about the world and the ways of things.”

“I’m not a grouch,” Bilbo muttered.

Bofur laughed aloud. “Aye, she would have said the same thing, too.”

“I imagine you teased her as mercilessly as you tease me,” Bilbo said with great dignity.

“Aye, I did. And I have to say, Mr. Bilbo, that she eventually handled it better than you. There is where the similarities end.”

“How so?” Bilbo wondered.

“Well, for one, she wouldn’t be caught dead unprepared in the wild. She’d have planned out every little potential disaster and taken great pleasure in doing so. Gotten almost smug about it, you know? She was fine with a blade, and I’ve yet to see the same from you. She liked being right, which is good because she was right most of the time.” Bofur smiled, and it was a smile that managed to be fond and wistful and a little wicked all in one. “I mean this in only the nicest way, Mr. Bilbo, but she was a far sight better looking than you.”

“I should hope so,” Bilbo said, and he felt himself grin. “No offense taken.”

“Good. She’d probably have found a kindred spirit in you, odd enough. And . . . well, it’s nice to be reminded of her.”

Bilbo was quiet for a moment, suddenly very aware that this was the most specific Bofur had ever been when speaking of his life – figured that it was cloaked in layers of jest and vague allusion. “She was important to you, then?” Bilbo asked carefully.

But the moment had passed. Bofur looked away, and it seemed that he no longer saw the world around him, but instead some distant place that lay a few weeks journey behind. “Come on, Mr. Bilbo,” he said at last, with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. “We’ve fallen behind.”

\--

The sun had passed below the horizon as Bofur stepped out into the cool night air, Bifur at his side. He hadn’t been outside of the mountain in a few weeks, and it was odd to be under the open sky once again. The last time he’d wandered south for a few months to seek employment at another mine, for the one he worked in regularly did not have space for him in the tunnel they were worked, and when it came down between him and a dwarf native to the Blue Mountains, it was understandable they’d choose to employ their home-born kin.

He saw the Crooked Hammer just at the base of the mountain, a dark stain against the snowy forest, save for the bright lights of the windows, glowing like stars might. He realized he was nervous, then; not only because he disliked conflict as a whole and a hard knot of unease had formed in the pit of his gut, but because he’d spent a week thinking about this woman with hardly any provocation, and it was both thrilling and terrifying to have a chance to see her again.

He glanced sideways at Bifur, who was being suspiciously innocent – no broken Khuzdul, no meaningful glares, no grunts or groans. He was silent as a shadow.

With a huff of breath, Bofur pushed into the tavern, steeling himself for the worst. He scanned the room for anything untoward first – a blade drawn, a grabby patron, anything – but it was oddly average. A few men sat in the corner with their heads bowed together, talking in low voices, their weapons propped against their table, and a handful of outland miners clustered at the opposite end.

And there – weaving between tables with a platter of ales in hand –was Rikke. Untroubled, brow furrowed as she maintained her balance and delivered the ales to the dwarves in the corner. Surely they were a little over-friendly (and he wasn’t exactly thrilled watching one make a grab at her rear, even though she deftly weaved out of reach) but it was hardly the life and death situation he’d been fearing.

Had he always been so prone to overreaction? Not usually, he didn’t think.

The door rattled closed behind him, and whatever thoughts of escape he’d briefly considered vanished in that moment, for she looked up and met his gaze. In those dark eyes he saw quick recognition flash, and he was relieved to be remembered, for he couldn’t imagine the shame if he’d been forgotten by a woman he’d been unable to put from his thoughts for one solitary moment.

As she did not seem to be in any immediate danger (as Riva had implied), he decided to wait. He and Bifur found a seat at the corner of the tavern, and there they lingered. He guessed that Rikke must have been close to leaving, for she cleared away empty glasses on the abandoned tables and washed them quickly before shrugging into her cloak and making her way to the door.

“You seem to be fine,” he said as she passed, without pausing to think whether accosting a woman no better than a stranger would be appropriate or smart. Beside him, Bifur shook his head.

“Excuse me?” she said as she turned to face him, and the expression set on her face would have put the fear of death in a stronger man than he.

“Aha.” Suddenly, he felt monumentally stupid. “Your daughter sought me out, said you should have been home by now, and that she was scared to come down here. So I offered to . . . ah. Well, I offered to help.”

Rikke’s dark eyes narrowed. “She knows I work late, and that she won’t come to harm here, not while I work.”

“I’m sorry to have troubled you,” he backtracked quickly. “Just saying what she said.”

He expected her to continue her irate interrogation, but instead she heaved a heavy sigh, pinching her brow with one hand. “No, no. Don’t go. This is . . . well, this is to be expected, I suppose. She came up to you with a good and tragic tale, made her lip quiver, and you thought to help, right?”

Bofur frowned, realization dawning. “So . . . she wasn’t actually worried?”

“No, of course not. I’ve worked here for years without trouble. Or at least, without trouble I couldn’t handle. I can’t begin to guess what her reasons for such a deception are, but I’m very sorry that she troubled you, Mr. Bofur. Though . . .” she trailed off, and he couldn’t entirely be sure in the dim light of the tavern, but it almost seemed as if her cheeks colored. “Though I thank you for your concern,” she ground out stiffly.

Behind him, Bifur snorted, unable to keep his thoughts to himself any longer. And in any other circumstance, Bofur would not have blamed his cousin – the situation was ridiculous to the point of farce, and yet the only thought he actively entertained at that moment was that she’d remembered his name.

Bofur’s bright grin was back in place, and he suddenly felt much more cheerful than he had in a long while. “No trouble at all,” he said. “You know, now that I’m here, I think I’ll stay for a drink. Bifur?”

His elder cousin was normally long-suffering to the degree of a martyr, made all the worse by the fact that he only communicated in meaningful glances, ancient Khuzdul, and a smattering of iglishmêk that he remembered from before his injury. At the moment, he was looking at Bofur as if he’d only just pieced together the situation, and he was not exactly impressed with the answer he’d uncovered.

Bofur decided to ignore this, for his good fortune had made him slightly giddy. “Could I tempt you to join us?” he asked her.

He expected to her to refuse, and he wouldn’t have blamed her for it in the least. He was still as good as a stranger to her – popping up at odd times, brought around by her clever, meddlesome daughter. Rikke’s dark eyes flickered with something he didn’t recognize – consideration, perhaps, or was it reluctance?

“I suppose I owe you that at least,” she said finally. “Since you were kind enough to be concerned for my daughter.”

“You owe me nothing, least of all your company,” Bofur said. “I wouldn’t turn it away, though.”

“Then I would be remiss to refuse,” said Rikke, and she took a graceful seat across the table from him, shrugging out of her cloak and flagging one of the other serving girls to bring them ale. Across the room, the outland miners began to sing a rowdy song of the Iron Hills, and Bofur figured they must be deep in their cups, for it was a song he’d at least have been a little embarrassed to sing in front of a woman.

“I didn’t catch your name,” she said to Bifur.

“How rude of me! This is my elder cousin, Bifur,” said Bofur, clapping him on the back. “And yes; that is a bit of axe stuck in his forehead.”

Rikke took this as permission to study the wound. “Indeed,” she said, her brow furrowed in concentration. “Orc, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Aye, you’re not,” said Bofur with some surprise. “Have you some skill in these matters, then?”

“Some,” said Rikke without a trace of falsely modest affectation. “Not enough. It is fine to meet you, Bifur.”

“He can’t talk so much, but he can understand you well enough. And if he’s got something really important to say, I can translate for him.”

To this, Bifur made a weary, long suffering gesture, before taking a hearty pull of his ale.

“Would you rather I not speak for you, then?”

“ **Sigin galabâl** ,” said Bifur, rolling his eyes.

“Now that’s a fine thank you for all I do for you, cousin!”

“What’s he said?” asked Rikke.

“He means to say I’m a blowhard, that ungrateful traitor,” said Bofur, laughing.

“From what I’ve seen, Mr. Bofur, I’m afraid I will have to agree with your kin,” said Rikke, and he almost thought he saw her lips twitching against a smile.

“I see what this is! Such betrayal, and from a beautiful woman and my own family! Men have gone to die for lesser insults.”

“Somehow, I expect you will survive,” Rikke said dryly.

Bofur hadn’t heard his cousin laugh since before the orc that had nearly ended his life, yet the sound he made now was the closest thing to what he remembered. “Maybe I will,” said Bofur, grinning. “Maybe I will at that.”

And he saw it, then – a real smile. He might have missed it if he’d been looking elsewhere, but before she brought her mug of ale to her lips, he saw them curve upward, her eyes bright, and it was just as he suspected from the first moment he’d seen her; there was no more beautiful sight in the world.

She cleared her throat. “I should apologize again, I think,” she said with some of her old temerity. “For Riva. She can be quite cunning when she’s decided she wants something. And while I’m wise to her ways, you are not. Please accept my apologies on her behalf.”

“Ah, there’s no need,” said Bofur, gesturing dismissively. “Nothing wrong with a bit of mischief, in a child or otherwise.”

“It doesn’t surprise me that you think so,” said Rikke. “However, I expect my daughter not to trouble strangers with her machinations.”

“I was hardly troubled,” Bofur laughed. “Were you, Bifur?”

Bifur took a steady pull of his ale and shook his head, making a low sound in the back of his throat.

“Here, see? No trouble.”

“All right, then. No trouble. Although,” she said, arching a brow. “I should think part of this is your fault.”

“My fault?!”

“Aye. If you weren’t so agreeable, and if your stories weren’t so enthralling to a child’s ears, perhaps this nonsense could have been avoided.” She paused, setting her mug down on the table with great dignity. “She’s been over the moon about that dragon, and the story of that poor burned up bard, and I know she had a mind to seek you out and get another story out of you. I hope you chose this one better.”

“Ah . . .” He knew he should fear this fierce woman and the sharp look in her eye, but all that registered properly was that she found him agreeable.

Bifur snorted into his mug.

“I will have a greater care with my stories in the future, my lady,” he said, inclining his head. “She told me you were fond of the story of Aylá the maiden-smith, though now I wonder if she was only greasing the wheel.”

Rikke was silent for a moment. “No, she spoke truly,” said she at last. “That is a favorite of mine, and of hers.”

“As I told her, you have excellent taste.”

A brow arched into her auburn hairline. “Now who is greasing the wheel?”

“I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing to you. You’re much too smart for my tricks.”

“You seem to enjoy making light of me.”

“I enjoy making light of most things,” Bofur grinned. “But I would be much too frightened to mock you, my lady.”

“Indeed,” said Rikke, steepling her fingers as imperiously as a judge would. “You’d be wise to do so. There is a reason this place took me on as a barmaid, and it is not for my homeliness.”

“Homeliness? Oh, my lady, you must have never had the pleasure of looking at yourself as I am,” he blurted without really thinking. There weren’t many times where he wished to be struck mute as his cousin, yet at that moment he prayed that he’d lose the power of speech before being swallowed whole by the earth, never to be seen or heard from again. Confound his uncontrollable tongue!

She stared up at him as if surprised, and it occurred to him that she hadn’t been fishing for praise, for she found his own truly surprising. “Ah – that is . . . kind of you to say,” she managed. “However untrue it may be.”

“I wouldn’t dream of lying –“ he began dumbly, but she cut him off.

“You’re fond of telling wild tales,” she said firmly. “I find myself curious. Regale me with one before I return home to my daughter, and I will consider forgiving your presumption.”

“That is most gracious of you,” he said, grinning. “Now let’s see . . . what would properly amuse such a fine lady as yourself?”

He wracked his memory for something appropriate, but for the first time in his life it failed him. He must have known a thousand stories, horded all his years alive, collected like one might collect books, and thus far his memory had never forsaken him. Yet as he looked at her, he felt oddly lost. He was a natural performer, and yet here he was, experiencing stage-fright as he never had before.

So he began to speak without thought or plan, pulling fragments from the hidden corners of his thoughts like a thief ransacking a home. “Many years ago, beyond the reach of memory or record, there was a lady as fair as the spring, and as vicious as a wild storm. She’d sooner cut out your tongue than wish you a fine morning, and you’d be glad for the attention, so beautiful was she.”

“Had this lady a name?” asked Rikke, cottoning on.

“It’s likely she did, aye,” said Bofur, and he rummaged through the pocket of his outercoat for his pipe. “Those who knew her were simply too frightened of her to ask her name. They resolved to before she died, yet it seems they never got around to it, and thus it was lost to us.”

Rikke bit her lip to keep from grinning. “So a fearsome lady who cut out tongues and had no name. Sounds like a fitting tale.”

“I’m pleased you think so,” said Bofur, and it was a struggle to keep his voice from growing too fervent, as he was making up the entire thing on the spot. “She was not made for the softer things in life – cooking and sewing and other fine pursuits. She was forged in the fire of her rage, and thus there was no greater equal on the field of battle. It was said that to hear her cry echo across the plain was to hear the herald of your own death, and so powerful was that cry that her foes would lay down their arms and accept the death that came for them.”

“She sounds fearsome, indeed,” said Rikke, lips twitching. “It’s a pity there are none of her ilk today, then.”

“Are you so sure?” Bofur asked her as he puffed on his pipe. “I’ve met a few in my life, and I’d have met more still if duties weren’t set in stone.”

Her grin had faded. “That’s surprisingly progressive.”

“No; it’s pragmatic,” Bofur said. “Here, now; weren’t you interested in a story?”

“I was,” she said, blinking quickly. “Forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive.  Now, the nameless lady was so renowned that they proclaimed her the fiercest dwarf ever to have lived and bestowed upon her gifts and titles and land – they all but proclaimed her king. For in her youth, she had slain a dragon with nothing but her bare hands, and from his bones fashioned a mighty sword that cut through her foes as if from a thought. Though honestly, I’m inclined to think they lauded her because she terrified them. They’d seen the fury on the battlefield, and they had no intentions of provoking it; this rage-borne creature who had slain a dragon as if it were vermin.

“So they lived in fear of their fierce lady. All but one – a scholar, singer, songwriter. By most reckoning; a fool. One day he strode through her keep, past the guards that quivered in fear and shouted half-hearted warnings at his back, past the doors of gold and iron and stone, straight to the place where she sat. She was furious that such a lowly creature would dare approach her without first seeking her permission, and she surged to her feet when he knelt before her, his head bowed low, exposing his neck.

“He said ‘My lady, I would sing for you.’ She could scarcely believe the audacity of such a fool, and she pressed the point of her sword to his throat. ‘You presume to blunder your way into my home and force your song on me, when I could but move my hand and you would be silenced forever.’

“But the foolish scholar was not afraid. ‘If you wish me silent, you would only have to ask. For I would heed you, and no sound or song would ever escape my lips for as long as I lived.’

“She snarled – this, the lady of battle, whose cry heralded the death of her foes. ‘Every man in this city heeds my word out of fear. Why should your obedience impress me?’

“The fool looked up at her then, and she was nearly defeated by her surprise at that moment – no man had dared to look her in the eyes for many long years. ‘They would heed you out of fear, it is true. I would heed you from love.’

“She struggled to speak. ‘How could you love me?’ she demanded of the fool. ‘You do not know me.’

“All he said was this: ‘But I would like to.’”

“Did the fool tame her, then?” Rikke asked bitterly. “Bring her to heel like a misbehaving dog?”

“Hardly. She was as ferocious as ever, you’d be pleased to know. She was as fierce as a winter storm all her days, and he was as much of a fool as he’d ever been. But her rage was tempered, as was his foolishness. In each other, they found a measure of balance, which I’ve always felt is a good thing to seek.

“In the end, she died as she lived – fiercely, as a warrior would. She clutched her dragonbone sword to her chest and was buried with honor. And thus those who had followed her accosted the fool, demanding at last to know the name of their fierce warrior-lady, who had protected them through many dangers, so that they might honor her as befit her deeds and sing songs about her might and bravery until the world passed into dust. But he would not speak of it, for he had promised to keep it – to guard it, his most closely treasured secret. All the long years of his life, the fool never sang or spoke another word. And he too passed into dust, just as he had lived.”

Only after he’d finished his tale did Bofur notice that her eyes were bright – with tears or anger or sorrow, he didn’t know. He was about to speak when she blinked, and her expression was a mask of stone once more. “Thank you for the story,” she said in a strange, inflectionless voice. “It was very enjoyable.”

“I hope I haven’t upset you,” he said, no longer smiling. “It came out much more tragic than I meant for it to.”

She let out a shaky breath. “Tragic is a word I would use, yes,” she said in a soft voice. “I can see why children are so enthralled by your stories, Mr. Bofur. You do have a way with words.”

“It’s good that I at least have a way with something,” he said without thinking.

But she almost smiled, and he felt the knot of shame that had coiled in his gut lessen somewhat. “That you do. Now, if you’ll excuse me. It’s late and I have a daughter to see to.” She stood and draped her cloak over her shoulders before setting a handful of coin on the table. “For the ale and the story,” she said.  Before he could speak or refuse her money, she’d pushed out into the darkness and disappeared.

Bofur became aware of his cousin after a long moment spent watching the door and the place where she’d gone. Slowly, Bifur shook his head, and though he did not speak a word or make a gesture otherwise, his meaning was abundantly clear.


	4. Chapter 4

By nightfall the rain had tapered off, and the clouds faded to reveal a sky resplendent with stars, gleaming overhead like glimmering jewels stitched to ebony silk. Bilbo wished he had the energy to sit down with a sheaf of paper and a pencil, then, for the sight of the night sky over the feathered tops of the pine trees was actually quite beautiful.

In equal turn, though, it made him ache for home. There were no pines in the Shire, or crags of rock that jutted up from the ground like broken bones against the stark sky. Only verdant and rolling hills, and weather so temperate one could sleep on the soft grass and it would be just as soft as a feather bed.

He had grown tired of the merry songs of the dwarves, who caroused loudly by the fire every night, their laughter strident as discordant bells. He’d grown tired of the smug disdain of the warriors – Thorin and Dwalin and Gloin, who looked at him as more of a liability than an essential part of their quest. He’d grown tired of the antics of Fíli and Kíli, who were more likely to laugh at something he said than actually respond to it. He’d grown tired of Dori’s arrogance, Oin’s knowing glances, even Ori’s manners.

Just about the only dwarf not to irritate the life out of him was Bofur, and that easily went the other way the moment he opened his mouth.

Resigning himself to another sleepless, uncomfortable night, Bilbo shook out his bedroll on the very edge of camp and rummaged around his pack for his pipe, lighting it and taking an irritated puff. The smoke curled outward on the night air, hovering above his head like a lacy halo before disappearing.

He thought of Bag End, as he did often. It felt like a year had transpired since he last curled up into his armchair and read a good book, instead of only a few days. To hear Gandalf tell it, their journey east would take many months if they were lucky, and Bilbo was inclined to think they would not be lucky on this journey. Who could say how many dangerous things lurked just beyond the edge of the forest – orcs and trolls, goblins and even more sinister creatures?

Not for the first time, he felt that this had been a terrible mistake, and it was likely he would not live to regret it fully.

He’d achieved enough distance away from the main campsite that he could hear a clear voice singing, far better than he’d ever be able to manage himself. The song filled him with longing and melancholy beyond anything he’d known before, even for the Shire. He did not recognize the language or the melody, but it was intensely beautiful and incredibly sorrowful all at once.

It took him a moment to realize that it was Bofur who sang. He was bent over a block of wood, carving it patiently with his whittling knife in a shape that Bilbo could not recognize from this distance. He got to his feet and made to approach when he heard someone clear their throat behind him, and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Bifur!” exclaimed Bilbo, clutching his chest in a futile attempt to control his pounding heart. “I didn’t see you there. I was just going to see if Bofur –“

Bifur shook his head slowly, his dark eyes glittering in the light of the distant campfire. It took Bilbo a moment to understand what he meant.

“O-oh. You want me to leave him alone?”

Bifur nodded.

“Right. That’s fair. I’d want to be left alone too, I suppose.” Bilbo craned over his shoulder once again, taking in the hunched silhouette of Bofur as he whittled. “What’s wrong with him?”

Bifur sighed as he gazed at his younger cousin, his expression as remote as the stars above. Finally, he spoke. “ **Uzayang** ,” he said, and the word overflowed with feeling.

“I’m sorry, what?”

The dwarf made a frustrated sound at the back of his throat, and his brow furrowed as he struggled to find another way to express himself that did not involve Khuzdul (being that they’d have to involve Bofur in the conversation if the wanted it to be translated, and that would have defeated the purpose). Finally, he held a gentle hand to his chest, just above his heart, and in that manner Bilbo understood.

\--

There was a part of Bofur that wished his life would resume its everyday dullness, where nothing unexpected ever happened, but he found that to be a vain hope. He was consumed in a way that he never had been in his life – not by work or devotion to his kin, or even the vague promise to retake the homeland of his distant kin; the kingdom of Erebor, which was little better than a figment of one of his stories. Where before he had thought of Rikke as a part of a question – a woman he knew nothing of, beside his own reaction to her – now he was consumed by what he’d learned, and it was imminently more compelling than anything he’d ever known.

He might have been able to deny it, had Bifur not seen for himself. He was a fairly accomplished liar when he chose to be – years of spinning stories had gifted him that much. But at the moments when his thoughts would drift to Rikke, he would catch Bifur staring, and there was no mistaking the knowing expression on his face.

For dwarves, love of kin was borne in blood, and more powerful than any force known to man or beast. It was the foundation of their society, and among the dwarves, it was common for them to lay down their lives in sacrifice for their families should the need arise. Bofur was a fine example of this; when Bifur was injured all those years ago, Bofur resumed his post at the mines, though he would have rather confronted Smaug the Terrible in his smallclothes than enter another mine.

So it wasn’t devotion that was new to him. But most dwarves are not moved by that that fills the hearts of men and drives them mad with foolish passion. Dwarven marriage is more often than not a businesslike affair – a unification of lines, an alliance between families, a transfer of goods and services, or sometimes two people who find the other agreeable and wish to start a family. Most dwarves prefer their craft and vocation to all else, thus this arrangement is not a painful one.

That was not to say there was no passion in dwarves, or they were incapable of seeking that passion in the arms of another. Nor was it to say that they were incapable of fierce jealousy, covetous rage, and maddening desire. Just that they made a better show of keeping it secret, and those feelings were often separated from marriage. Bofur speculated it was why dwarven women were such a rare sight outside of dwarven cities and holds – because a dwarf would guard what he felt was his to the point of feral determination, without considering what he guarded was a person and not a pile of gold.

Bofur had learned these things as all young dwarrows do; with detached consideration, doubting that such a thing would ever concern him. He had his craft – mining and the make of toys – and that sufficed for so many of his culture.  It was odd and frankly isolating to suddenly find himself thrust in a situation that had little bearing in his culture, with no one to speak to who would understand.

At one point in the ensuing week, he thought he’d grown ill. He couldn’t eat, much to the chagrin of Bombur, and he slept insufficiently, tossing and turning as night deepened, only to wake with a headache pressing between his red and raw eyes.

“Not hungry again?” asked Bombur on the sixth night of the week, standing over him with a steaming bowl of stew, his gaze tight with concern.

“Of course I am,” said Bofur, reaching for the bowl and setting it in front of him, poking hopefully at the contents within. “Long day, is all.”

“You sure?”

“Mm,” he said, and he took a bite, marveling that his brother’s normally masterful cooking had lost all taste. “We’re in the west chasm this week,” he finally admitted. “Found a vein there.”

Bombur and Bifur looked up from their respective meals, and their faces were mirror images of fraught concern. “You – you’re in the --?”

“It’s fine,” Bofur said, and he waved away their worry. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” Bombur argued. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because there’s nothing I can do about it,” said Bofur, shrugging. “Nothing you can do about it, either. It is what it is, and that’s that. You’ll worry yourself grey if you insist on fussing.”

And though he could tell Bombur dearly would have liked to argue further, he fell silent and ate his dinner, though now without his usual verve. Bofur turned away and cursed himself. He shouldn’t have said anything; no reason for his kin to suffer too.

And . . . well, the west chasm was not the sole source of his preoccupation, either. If only it could have been. `

The seventh day dawned, and this time Bofur did not accompany his cousin to their shop. At Bifur’s questioning look, he merely shrugged him off. “Going to head to the archive for the first part of the day, all right?”

Bifur’s head tilted. “ **Kuf?** ”

“Because you’ve been using words I don’t understand lately,” said Bofur, shrugging. “Though I’d brush up a bit on my Khuzdul.”

“ **Ahyrunul.** ”

“I’m not lying!”

Though he knew he cousin still did not believe him, Bifur heaved a long suffering sigh and gestured vaguely with one hand. “ **Ganag.** ”

“It’ll just be a few hours,” Bofur said as his cousin departed. “You’ll hardly notice I’m gone.”

That wasn’t really true, either, but there was nothing for it at this point. The truth was Bofur’s Khuzdul was apt, and Bifur rarely used a word that he didn’t understand or didn’t have an equivalent word for. The truth was that after a week of pining and burning and suffering, he’d decided to seek some definitive truth on the matter so as to put it behind him, as his peers and kin would be of little help there.

It took nearly an hour to scrub his hands clean of the dirt that had wedged itself permanently under his nails and in the rough skin of his callouses, for he could hardly expect to be allowed to handle the books there with a miner’s hands.

The archive was located on the southern edge of the city nearest the entrance, for the mountain tended to be drier there and thus was better for preserving documents prone to decay. Bofur did not make a habit of study here; he’d learned to read many years ago in order to learn Khuzdul for the sake of Bifur, but it was a troublesome affair. The letters jumbled on the page and it took him many attempts to piece together the word the original author intended.

Also, he often felt out of place among the truly learned and wise, who wandered from aisle to aisle as they studied and contemplated deep matters. He was from a poor family, a cowardly miner descended from braver miners, and it took him an entire day to read only a few pages of a book they could completely consume in only a fraction of that time.

He pushed through the doors of the archive and tried to ignore the narrowed eyes of the scholars as they took him in, in all his poor, unkempt glory. They were not at liberty to turn away the public from the general stacks, but they delighted in barring him from the rare documents, where only a real scholar was allowed to tread.

He wandered through the shelves, altogether unsure what it was that he was looking for. Answers, he supposed. Peace, relief. He was looking for a reprieve, and if that was impossible, at least some small measure of understanding.  

As he suspected, the records and tales of the dwarves were of little help. Most focused on their mighty deeds in battle (fine fodder for his stories, but not helpful to the problem at hand). That was to say nothing of the endless indexes of all the fine crafts his race had forged through the ages, of which they all took careful stock. So he made his way over to some of the records of men, shiftily as a thief would. He knew he had no business there, and the scholars knew it too. He could feel their collective gaze burning into his back as he slunk across the hall, trying his best to be invisible.

He’d made it through a half page of a collection of old stories when someone spoke, and he nearly jumped out of his skin, the book tumbling out of his hands and landing on the ground with a loud _thunk_. “For the love of Mahal– I’m allowed to be here!” he protested. “I washed my hands and everything, see?”

The offender – a young, wide-eyed dwarf – looked completely horrified to have intruded so violently. “N- no, I didn’t mean to – I just wanted to know if you needed help,” he said in a rush, coloring to the roots of his pale red hair.

Bofur let out a long breath and bent to retrieve the fallen book. “I probably could use some help,” he said grudgingly. “What’s your name, lad?”

“Ori,” said the young dwarf. “And you?”

“Bofur. Fine to meet you, and all that.” He glanced cursorily at the lad’s tunic and ink-stained fingers. “Do you work here?”

Ori’s shoulders slumped. “For now, anyway,” he said quietly, shooting an unhappy glance over his shoulder at the rest of the minders. “The others don’t like me much.”

“Aye, they don’t like me much, either,” said Bofur, clapping Ori on the shoulder. “It’s hardly a measure of your character.”

And despite not knowing Bofur at all, the lad brightened. “So you needed help?” he asked eagerly.

“Ah – right.” Bofur slid the book back on its shelf and rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t expect this will make a lot of sense, but . . . well, I don’t expect you’ll judge me much for it, either.”

“Of course not,” Ori said, eager not to alienate his new ally. “Tell me how I can help.”

“I – for starters, I’m aware that this is . . . odd nonsense,” Bofur said, his voice dropping to a hush so quiet that only he and Ori would be able hear. “And now that I’m here, I realize I probably won’t be able to find anything to help me.”

“But what’s troubling you?” Ori asked, and Bofur was warmed to see genuine concern in the young lad’s eyes.

“I . . . there’s a woman,” he admitted, and as he spoke the words he found it paradoxical that he could admit this to a stranger more easily than he could to his own kin. “I can’t eat, I barely sleep anymore. I would find it disagreeable if I found anything about her disagreeable, which I don’t. And being exhausted and hungry and distracted all the time is something of an occupational hazard, so I thought I would come here and . . . see if there was anything I could do about it.”

Any other dwarf might have laughed and told Bofur to focus on his crafts, and that such silly nonsense was the province of men, those bumbling, unprincipled creatures;  hardly the conduct of a proper dwarf. But young Ori pursed his lips thoughtfully, only looking up after a long moment had passed. “I don’t think we have anything here that could help,” he said sadly. “Tales from the first age, perhaps, but they just go on and on and wallow in those feelings, and you’d like to get rid of it. I’m very sorry.”

“Oh, it’s nothing to trouble yourself with. Likely it’ll fade on its own,” Bofur lied lightly.

But Ori looked truly disheartened that he’d been unable to help someone who had been so kind to him. “I’ll look, though!” he promised just as Bofur had turned. “I’ll look through the whole archive, even in the back rooms where you’re not allowed to go, and I’ll tell you if I find anything!”

Not for the first time in their short conversation, Bofur was touched. “That’s . . . truly kind, lad. Thank you.”

Ori nodded eagerly. “It’ll be nice to have an excuse to look through the back rooms,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “All sorts of interesting things back there. Tomes thick as my arm! Nothing better than making your way through that, I tell you.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it, lad. Making my way through tomes gives me a headache.”

“That’s – I’m sorry,” said Ori quickly.

“Ah, don’t trouble yourself about it.”

Ori nodded again, brightening after a moment. “Where can I find you, Mr. Bofur?”

He thought for a moment. “My brother’s a cook at the Three Stone. I’m there most nights.”

“Aye, I know it,” said Ori eagerly. “I’ll find you straight away if I find anything.”

“Come by even if you don’t,” Bofur told him with a grin. “You’re welcome regardless.”

He left the archive feeling slightly better than he had when he’d entered. His purpose itself was a wash, but he liked meeting new people, and that was never a waste in his opinion. Though it was odd to notice this, it registered slightly as relief to have confessed this odd feeling, even if it was only to a lad still no better than a stranger.

He hurried to their stall in the market, and was surprised to see little Riva hanging around expectantly, leaning on the table so that he feet dangled carelessly. He was even more surprised to see her chatting animatedly with Bifur, who was smiling at the apparently wild things she said. When she noticed him approach, she hopped off the table and rushed to his side.

“Mr. Bofur!” she said, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “I wondered when you’d be coming. Your cousin said it would be a few hours – at least I think that’s what he was trying to say  -- but you were even longer than that, and I wondered if you weren’t going to come at all this week, and –“

“Here, now,” he laughed. “Calm down or you’ll choke on your tongue.”

“That’s not really possible,” she told him.

“Ooh, are you sure?” he asked her seriously. “I knew a little girl your age who died that way; wouldn’t stop talking long enough to take a breath when she tripped, swallowed her own tongue, and that was the end of that.”

Riva pressed her lips together. “Okay,” she said. “I’m calm.”

“Good thing, too. It could have been quite a close shave. Now; what can I do for you?”

She looked up at him, almost shyly. “Do you have a story today?”

He made a show of thinking long and hard about it, though in truth he’d had one he wanted to share even since he’d learned about her little trick from last week. He fixed her with a grin and leaned close. “As a matter of fact, I have one especially for you,” he told her.

“Especially?!”

“Aye, especially. Are you interested?”

“Yes, of course!” she said, bouncing a little on her feet again.

“All right, then. Many years ago, there was a clever little girl who was infinitely smarter than everyone around her, and as such she was easily bored. She ran her poor mother to the bone with her machinations, for she was always looking for new ways to amuse herself.”

“And her father?” said Riva sharply, catching on quick as a whip.

“Aye, her father too,” Bofur said. “In fact, she regularly tormented her entire village in her perpetual quest to amuse herself. It wasn’t her fault, not at first; she was smart and clever and very pretty, and such a small village was hardly enough to occupy her the way she needed to be occupied. She had big things waiting for her in the world, you see, and she was rather impatient to get there.

“So one day she was terrifically bored, so she decided to play a bit of a prank on her village. She ran through the streets like a squirrel with its tail caught on fire, screaming ‘Warg! Warg! There’s a warg on its way!’ The entire village jumped to action – grabbing weapons, manning their posts, the archers training their sharp gazes on the horizon – yet the minutes passed into hours and there were no wargs to be seen.”

He watched comprehension dawn on Riva’s features just as she shifted her gaze to her feet, her cheeks reddening with shame. “And then?” she asked in a small voice.

“Well, I’m sure you can imagine her village was not too pleased with the prank. Of course, she thought it was great fun, watching every soul in the village spring to action on her word. Her mother warned her that if she kept doing such things, no one would believe her when she was actually in trouble. But the girl was clever and bored, and when boredom goes unattended, you’ll find it can become quite malicious. She waited a few days then ran screaming through the streets again. ‘Help me! Wargs are coming!’ she cried, and once again the entire village sprang to its defense, only to see that once again, the girl had lied.”

Bofur hadn’t believed it possible to dull Riva’s uncharacteristic enthusiasm – not when she’d pulled off her trick without a hitch – but if anything, she looked close to tears. “And then?” she asked him.

“I suppose it would be mild to say the village was furious with their clever, pretty girl. No one would speak to her, and if she claimed anything they would seek out her parents for the truth. She grew quite tired of having no one believe her, so she resolved to do better in the future and tell the truth, because being doubted was even more intolerable than being bored.

“But she never got the chance. One day, she was playing by the river and heard a snarl in the rustling bushes, and it sent an icy chill down her spine. It was a pack of wargs, come to her village as if summoned by her untruths and misdeeds! She screamed to the guard: ‘Someone, help! Wargs! Wargs are chasing me!’ But because she had lied so many times in the past, no one believed her. And the wargs ate her whole.”

Perhaps a more hard-hearted dwarf would have suspected Riva of playing at shame, but Bofur caught her bright eyes and knew the display to be genuine. And though he did not like to upset her, he persevered. “Can you tell me what the moral is?” he asked her kindly.

“Not to lie anymore, else no one will believe me,” she whispered.

 “Aye, I think you’ve got it.”

She sniffed, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand.

“Here now; don’t be sad,” he told her gently.

“Are you angry at me?” she asked him, scuffing the ground with her hands twisted in front.

“No, of course not. I thought it a bit funny is all, and your mother was certainly surprised.”

“It’s just that she wanted to talk to you, but she’s too grouchy,” Riva said. “I thought I’d give her a little help.”

“So your motivations were entirely altruistic, were they?” he asked her.

“Well . . .”

“Ah ha.”

“But I’m not lying about that!” Riva said, and her eyes sparkled with passion. “I’m not! She thinks you’re fine.”’

“Really. Did she say as much?

“Not in so many words,” Riva said reluctantly, before a bit of temerity returned to her gaze. “I know my own mother well enough to say for certain, Mr. Bofur. She’s a notorious coward, and I thought I would help her. Because I love her very much and she’s so miserable all of the time, and she wasn’t miserable when she came back last week, and I _knew_ it, just like I knew about you, and I –“ She trailed off abruptly, and he suspected she’d admitted too much. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Even though I lied – and I may lie again, just to warn you – would you still believe me? If I was really in trouble?”

He looked at this odd, tender child, and found the answer very easy to manage. “Of course I would,” he told her gently. “Others might not, though. Remember that, all right?”

She nodded fervently. “Thank you for not being angry,” she told him.

“I’m never angry. Ask Bifur.”

To this, Bifur nodded solemnly.

He should have known, then. It was easy to take Riva’s condition as a contingency plan, a safety net should she fail to turn over this new leaf without stumbling every now and then. He should have known that she was already actively planning her next trick, and how best to achieve the end she wanted.

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

It took Bofur two weeks to admit that the women he’d spoken of so fondly was the widow Bombur had mentioned that first night. Not that Bilbo needed confirmation, exactly – he was quite astute, if he did say so himself – but it was good to have confirmation regardless of whether it was necessary or not. It spoke to trust.

“What was her name?” Bilbo asked on one uneventful day. Above them, the clouds were spun like tufts of cotton in a perfect cobalt sky. A gentle breeze toyed with his hair.

Bofur was quiet for a moment, his gaze trained on some distant place in the horizon, and Bilbo thought of how significant it was that Bofur did not smile or attempt to play it off as a joke, wrapped in a dozen layers of jest. “Rikke,” he said finally. “And her daughter, Riva.”

It unnerved Bilbo to see his friend like this. He smiled, attempting to bring a reflexive grin to the dwarf’s face. “Lovely names,” he said eagerly.

“Attached to lovely people,” said Bofur with a wistful smile.

“How did you meet them?” Bilbo wondered.

“Riva is – _was_ very fond of stories,” he said, his smile faltering. “I was fond of telling them. One day she hung about while I was selling toys, and brought her mother around. Spiraled out of control from there, I suppose.”

“So it was an easy thing, was it?”

“Och, no,” said Bofur, and Bilbo was pleased to hear him laugh at the audacity of that remark. “Haven’t you ever found yourself bewitched?”

“I can’t say that I have, no,” Bilbo said with great dignity.

“Hah! I honestly don’t know if I should be jealous of you or feel sorry for you,” Bofur grinned.

“You can answer the question without being insufferable,” Bilbo muttered.

“Insufferable, eh?”

Bilbo made a show of being more irritated than he actually was, for it was good to see Bofur shake off this strange mood that had come over him. “Well?”

Bofur smiled. “No, it was not an easy thing. It involved a few more life and death situations than I’m comfortable with. And . . . well. I don’t suppose my circumstance is typical. I’d fear for the survival of all life if it was.”

“You’re exaggerating,” Bilbo said skeptically.

“Aye, it’s possible,” said Bofur, scratching his chin. “I’ve been told I do that.”

“Imagine that.” Bilbo could not contain his good cheer; altogether the first time he’d felt so much since he stepped out into the world and left Bag End behind him. It was odd the wonders bringing a smile to a friend’s face did for his own outlook. In that realization, he understood why Bofur was so prone to laughing nonsense and silly japes; perhaps he suffered more than he let on.

“I suppose you have me all figured out, Mr. Bilbo,” said Bofur, smirking.

“I don’t imagine I do.”

“Come now. You’ve a brain in that little skull of yours.”

“A brain would hardly help, as you present yourself while being evasive and vague and irritating,” Bilbo muttered.

Bofur took a satisfied puff on his pipe. “Mr. Bilbo, if you ever decide to tell stories, one thing you’ll have to learn is that you must string along the listener until their absolute breaking point. If you answer all their questions immediately, why would they care a whit about your story? A good story creates questions, and the moment you give an answer, you must offer another question at the same time. On and on until the end.” Bofur’s grin widened. “If you’re truly cruel, you’ll end the tale itself with a question.”

“And are you cruel?”

“No, not particularly,” said Bofur. “I do like a good joke, however.”

\--

Bofur wasn’t exactly convinced Riva had learned her lesson, but she made a fine enough show of contrition, so he decided to let it slide. They resumed their practice of the last few weeks, which had begun to take the shape and feel of habit, save for one detail: now, Riva actively sought him out every morning instead of waiting the day he sold his silly toys.

The first day he saw her waiting just outside his home, he nearly choked on his tongue in surprise. He’d slept badly the night before and in his half-asleep state the world had taken an odd ephemeral quality, the edges of his vision shimmering. “Riva?” he blinked. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought I’d see you off to work!” she said cheerfully. “Can I carry something?”

Perhaps another dwarf would have been irritated to have gained such a stout admirer, but Bofur found that seeing Rikke’s clever daughter improved his mood considerably. He passed her his lunch pail with a smile. “You’ve very kind,” he told her. “Though I have to wonder what you’re sneaking away from to see me off at such an early hour.”

Riva clutched his lunch pail to her chest, avoiding his gaze. “Well . . . nothing, really.”

“Here’s the thing, lass. Being such a fine liar myself, I always know when people lie to me. Tell me the truth.”

Riva scuffed a bit of dirt, her lips curling sourly. “I apprentice with Dari,” she muttered.

“Mahal above. The seamstress?”

Riva nodded.

“You poor creature.”

“She’s very sour,” Riva said, encouraged by Bofur’s pity. “She hits me when my stitches are uneven. She says my mind wanders.”

“I can’t imagine she’s wrong there,” said Bofur.

“Still, she doesn’t have to hit me,” Riva argued.

“No, she shouldn’t. Do you not enjoy stitching, then?”

“Oh, I do,” Riva said, nodding. “I’m good at it when I can make something I like. Just that Dari often has me making nonsense that I don’t like, and she’s always looming above me like some great, lard-necked vulture. It’s very boring.”

“And what are the kinds of things you’d prefer to make?” Bofur asked her.

“I like embellishing,” Riva said excitedly, hop-skipping at his side. “Making pretty designs and trim. A few weeks ago I made a trim that looked like a dragon’s wing. Dari said it wasn’t practical and no one would like it.”

“I hope I haven’t inspired in you some unhealthy obsession with dragons,” Bofur said, smiling.

“I’ve always been interested in them,” she said with some of her usual reproach.

“Always? You’re very young, you know.”

“I’m seventeen! I’m as good as an adult,” she said stoutly.

“Ha! Not for a few decades yet, lass.”

She seemed to decide not to dignify this with a response. “So you work at the mine?”

“Aye, I do.”

“Do you like it?”

“It puts food on the table,” Bofur said, shrugging nonchalantly though the question made him a little uncomfortable.

“That’s not a proper answer.”

“Well, that was hardly a proper question, so I’d say they make quite a pair, don’t they?” Bofur peered down at her, watching her little hop-skip game as she balanced precariously on one foot.

“What are the mines like?” she asked as she stumbled a little, her hand shooting out to clutch his arm and catch her balance.

He steadied her. “Quite dark, you know.” He tapped the metal crown on his head, conspicuously devoid of a candle it usually bore. “You’ve got a candle here so you can see a few feet in front of you, but on the whole it’s quite dark.”

“Have you ever burned yourself?”

“Aye. You have to be careful not to move your head too much, or you’ll get hot wax in your eyes. Only had to happen to me once for me to be especially careful.”

“Hm,” said Riva, tapping her lips thoughtfully. “I imagine it’s quite loud, right?”

“Oh, frightfully loud. Like you wouldn’t believe. A thousand mattocks slamming into rock, or a thousand chisels poking away at a finer node, amplified by the echo of the cave or cavern. Mostly we speak through iglishmêk, and if there’s trouble, we all have whistles that’ll cut through the noise and get everyone’s attention.”

“Trouble?” Riva asked him, her eyes wide.

“Oh, aye. It’s rather a risky job,” he said nonchalantly, as if it did not concern him much, though in reality his hands had grown quite cold. “Now, you should be on your way, else you’ll get in trouble.”

“Nah, I won’t,” Riva said with the complete assurance of the very young. “Dari forgets the days I’m supposed to come by half the time.”

“Lass, I fear the wrath of your mother far more than I do of your grouchy seamstress.”

“You shouldn’t,” Riva said seriously. “She likes you too much to be angry at you.”

“I doubt that very much.”

“It’s true!” said Riva loudly. “She told me so.”

“You remember what I said about lying?”

“I said I wouldn’t lie anymore,” she retorted, a little hurt.

“You said you’d try not to lie anymore.”

She fell silent, cowed by the truth. “Still, though.”

“All right,” he told her, trying not to smile. “Give me my meal and I’ll say goodbye for now.”

With a despondent sigh, she passed his lunch pail back to him and scuffed her worn shoes against the dirt. “Here,” she mumbled. “I won’t bother you again.”

Perhaps he shouldn’t have, but he could not contain the laughter that burst from him, brought about by the ludicrous situation, and how easily this child played him like a fiddle, how much he’d grown to tolerate it, even appreciate it. “You are hardly bothering me and you know it,” he told her. “Now get on. Have a fine day, and don’t give your mistress too much trouble, all right?”

Slowly, a smile pulled at her lips. “All right,” said Riva, and before he could say another word, she had dashed away, around the corner and back into the commons, almost as quickly as she had come.

Perhaps he should have expected this occurrence to take the shape and feel of habit, too. For every morning since, he left his home to find Riva waiting, her little hands outstretched to carry his pail, positively bouncing in place until he waved and offered and answering grin. Every morning, she peppered him with a thousand questions, of variable difficulty: what happened to his parents? (Father died in a mine; Mother dead from illness) How long ago? (“Long enough,” he’d said). Did he have other family? (“Aye, a brother. Bifur you know.”) What did his brother do? (“He’s a cook at the Three Stone,”) and many more to that effect.

Though after a suitable line of questioning, her queries would always go back to the mine. She seemed to find his vocation strange and fascinating, perhaps due to the danger implicit, for she wasn’t so young that she hadn’t heard of a cave in every now and then, or a rope snapping, sending the attached miner careening to a violent death at the bottom of the cavern.

It took him a few days to realize little Riva was worried on his behalf, for the more he told her, the more fraught she appeared. From that moment on, he abandoned his preference for blunt honesty and instead dressed the truth in many layers of nonchalance.  It had been many months since the last accident, he told her. No one’s died in even longer, he said.

But she’d fallen silent, and it was at those moments when he wished he was able to read thoughts. For he wondered if her curiosity was only another front, and if she plotted something. She was far cleverer than he was (though that wasn’t exactly a difficult feat to achieve), and such a thing would be easy.

The night before his day of rest, he trudged to the Three Stone with the rest of the miners, leaning his pail and mattock against the table before sliding into his seat. He fished his pipe out of his jacket and struck a light without really paying attention, puffing until his head was half-obscured as if by a smoky halo. Bombur would be working for a few hours yet, and if Bofur was lucky, he could swipe some of the leftovers from the supper rush before heading home.

The Three Stone was rowdy, as usual. Some of his fellows had already made it to their third ales, and as such the songs they sung had become incoherent – more screaming bawdy verse at the top of their voices than anything.

“Bofur!” they cried. “Play us a tune!”

“I seem to have forgotten my flute today, lads,” Bofur said mildly, puffing on his pipe.

“You’ve got a voice, don’t you?” one called.

“Don’t bother asking him,” Bombur called from the back. “These days he’s only got melancholy melodies in his head.”

“Here now; that’s a fine thank you, brother,” Bofur retorted. “Lying to the lads like that. Truly shameful.”

“Prove me wrong, then.” He could almost see Bombur’s smug little grin. “If you’re able, that is.”

With an irritated huff, Bofur launched into a verse he’d thought of just the other day:

_“Fools in flight_

_Bring their might_

_Wishing through the willow night_

_Flight of fools_

_Bend their rules_

_Break them, smash them, give them height_

_Had I known,_

_How you’d grown_

_Might have made a fairer light_

_But you’ve seen_

_How I’ve been_

_Best to give a final bite.”_

It was utter nonsense, of course, and therefore the lads loved it. Bofur coupled it with a raucous, rowdy melody and stomped his feet in time to the ridiculous lyrics, and in only three  verses he had the entire room shouting in glee, smashing their mugs on the tables and calling for more supper to fit the merry mood.

Never mind that he’d been feeling far from merry when it the verse occurred to him. Or that he was filled with a suspicion that everything that came out of his mind these days was shite.

That was when he noticed an achingly familiar face at the door, closing it consciously behind her. Of course she would choose a night like tonight to seek him out. Of course she’d probably heard the ridiculous song as well. In fact, judging from the way her lips twitched against a grin, it was highly likely. As she lost the battle against her smile, however, he found that he would say and do any manner of self-effacing and stupid things for a chance to see it again.

“Ho there,” he called amicably as she approached. “Can I help you this fine evening?”

“Perhaps,” she said. “May I join you?”

He gestured to the chair opposite him, and she took a graceful seat, her back as straight as a beam. “You seem amused,” he said to her.

“You’re rather fine,” she replied, and he nearly choked on the ale he’d been sipping. For her part, the smile slid off her face, and she struggled to speak again. “I – I mean, your voice is very fine. I was surprised, is all.”

He swallowed, clearing his throat.  “Why would you be surprised?”

“You don’t seem much like a singer. I suppose now I understand your fascination with foolish bards,” she said knowingly.

“Yes, you’ve caught me,” he grinned. “I’ve a terrible ego. I can’t resist injecting myself into my stories.”

“No, I don’t think so,” she told him seriously. “If you had an ego, you wouldn’t cast yourself as the fool.”

“Well, I enjoy making light of myself.”

“Just like you do with most things, I remember.”

“Aye,” he said, and it was a challenge to keep from being visibly pleased that she remembered such a random detail. “Now, can I help you? Or were you merely interested in the pleasure of my foolish company? Because I’m more than able to provide.”

She ignored his teasing, her brows pulling low over dark eyes. “I’ve just elicited an interesting confession from my daughter,” she said slowly.

“Oh, aye?”

“Riva has grown quite attached to you,” said Rikke quietly. “I wonder if you encourage it.”

“I don’t discourage it,” Bofur said, shrugging. “I think she’s a charming child, and she often brings a smile to my face. So I attempt to return that favor.”

“She would be pleased to hear such a thing.”

“Somehow I suspect you are less than pleased,” he said, watching her remote expression carefully.

She seemed to process her answer from many angles. “You have not given me a reason to mistrust you thus far,” she said slowly. “But I will be keeping my eye on you.”

“I find that arrangement quite agreeable,” he said before he could stop himself.

She did not smile. “You are a horrible tease.”

“I am,” he agreed. “Though if you’d rather I conduct myself differently, you need only say the word.”

“I haven’t decided what I’d prefer,” she said honestly. “I hardly know whether to laugh at what you say or scold you.”

“If I could inject an opinion,” he said, grinning. “I’d prefer your laughter, for your smile is lovely.”

“Perhaps one day you’ll find the intestinal fortitude to be serious for a few moments, at least,” she deflected, and though the light was rather low in the bar, he thought he saw her cheeks darken.

“I wouldn’t hold your breath,” he grinned. It was altogether an odd thing to notice – for in the times where they were apart, he felt drawn and preoccupied, but the moment she sat opposite him and fixed him with her dark and beautiful gaze, he found the hard knot of apprehension lessen in his gut. Later, when he was alone, he’d marvel at his boldness, and that he’d managed to tell her multiple times in the conversation that he found her lovely. Later, he’d marvel that she alone was privy to his truth – more so than his own kin – despite that they still knew so little of one another.

He cleared his throat. “If you would rather I send Riva on her way in the mornings – “

“No,” said Rikke, cutting him off firmly. “I would be remiss to deny my daughter something that brings her joy. I hadn’t seen her smile in so long that I’d nearly forgotten the sight of it.”

For the first time in recent memory, Bofur couldn’t think of anything to say. It explained rather well the change he’d seen in the child over the last weeks – her somber and taciturn demeanor fading to reveal something more childlike and free. He was humbled to learn he was partly the reason.

“So I suppose my point is that I’d like to know you, in that I’d like to know that my daughter is safe. It’s nothing personal, so I hope you’ll forgive a mother of being protective of her child.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Bofur said, and he offered a partly coherent prayer of thanks for his good fortune. “I’m a hopeless brag, and now it seems I now have multiple opportunities in a day to speak at length about my endlessly interesting life and character.”

“It seems that you do,” Rikke agreed, and he thought his heart would swell past the confines of his chest at the sight of her smile; only the slightest curve of her lips, but still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. “Though I will reserve judgment on the interesting part.”

He found himself answering many of the same questions he’d answer for Riva earlier in the week. His family, his experiences to the effect of the present. But while Riva’s interest was more or less benign, he could not escape the suspicion that he was being weighed as worthy or not with each answer he offered, and often he was made to guess at her reaction, for she was quite skilled at keeping her features smooth and unreadable.

It was many hours later when she’d seemed to have run out of things to ask, for she drew away and laid her palms flat on the table, and it was only then that he noticed they’d leaned close as the conversation deepened. “Have I satisfied your curiosity, my lady?” he asked cheekily. Her proximity had made him slightly punch drunk.

“For now.”

“And your verdict?”

“You mean well,” she said simply.

“I’ve offered you my life story, and this is the conclusion you give me?”

“There’s nothing wrong with such a conclusion,” she argued. “And you should be proud of that much. There are many who can’t even claim the same.”

“Fair enough,” he allowed. “Would I be lucky enough to earn some answers to my questions?”

“Perhaps,” she said, and he was thrilled to see something akin to amusement in her eyes. “Not tonight.”

“Right. Excuse me, then, while I drown my sorrows in my ale.”

“How you love to exaggerate!” exclaimed Rikke. “I didn’t say never; I said not tonight.”

“Then I will console myself with that.”

“Well . . .  there is one question I’d like an answer to, before I leave.”

“You realize you’ve given me no incentive to answer it,” he returned, whip-fast.

She ignored this. “I find myself curious why you’re so partial to stories.”

He thought it would be risky to give her a full answer, when she could so easily wise up to how little he was able to offer and never return. Instead, he smiled and leaned close, dropping his voice to a hush so that she would have to lean in as well, lest his voice be lost over the rowdy singing of his fellow miners.

“Many years ago, there was a human king with a heart filled with malice, and a lust for cruelty that knew no equal –“

“This isn’t an answer to my question,” Rikke said, not amused.

“Have faith, dear lady!” he said. “Have a little faith!”

She pursed her lips, but after a moment of consideration, she leaned close again and said no more.

“Now this king was maliciously bored, and filled with all that is evil in men’s hearts. He used his position of power to select young maidens from the surrounding villages. He would marry them, then after growing tired of them he would cut off their heads the next morning. He cared little for anything aside from his own greed and desire, and a lifetime of getting his way had made him hard and cold. Frankly sociopathic, if we’re going to be honest with each other.

“One day, he selected a clever maiden from the village to be his bride of one night. Knowing what was in store for her, she wove for him fantastic tales, the likes of which he’d never heard in his short and cruel life. She spun gold with her words, painted with her stories; her voice took on the quality of a song as she spoke to him. But just before the sun rose, she stopped her tale and told the king that he would have to wait to learn what happened until the next evening.”

“Yes, I know this story,” said Rikke, her voice dark. “She extended her life through these stories, and always left them off right before the end, so the king would be forced to leave her alive for one more night. Eventually, he realized he was in love with her, and he ceased his killing ways, and thus she remained with her captor until the end of his natural life.”

“That is indeed how one version goes,” Bofur said, puffing on his pipe. “Are you interested in my version?”

“I suppose I am.”

“The maiden had no intention of living out her life with such a fiend, even if he made claims at being reformed by his love for her. She was clever, infinitely so, and wise enough to know that her survival would always balance on the king’s interest. The moment her songs and stories lost their fascination, he’d put her neck on the block and relieve her of her head.

“The king was in possession of a slave he’d had since childhood – a fool and a jester.”

“Of course he was,” said Rikke, her brows arching skeptically.

“I told you I’m a brag. Now shush. The fool had just as much cause to hate his king as the clever maid did, so they devised a plot. One night while the maid spun her stories, the fool would sneak up on their king and slit his throat, and thus they would be free to escape.”

“Unlikely,” Rikke said. “Kingsguard are no slouches.”

“My lady Rikke,” said Bofur. “I had no idea your suspension of disbelief was such a tenuous thing.”

“I should hardly have to apologize for it, either,” said Rikke. “It’s the job of the storyteller to charm the disbelief out of me.”

“Then I will endeavor to do so,” Bofur grinned. “Anyway, you forget that the kingsguard have no place in the royal bedchamber, nor will they hover between a king and his queen while he takes what he believes is his. And the king himself was a prideful creature, who wouldn’t have suspected his wife of possessing the will and fortitude to fight back in his wildest nightmares. Have I assuaged your disbelief?”

“Yes, I imagine so,” Rikke said, biting her lip against a smile.

“The night of their plot dawned. The clever maiden spun a story of triumph in battle, and a mighty king siring a dozen sons to carry on his name, and the king was much pleased. He believed the time was ripe for a new wife, and this last story of hers would sustain him. But just as he closed his eyes, the fool sprung behind him and sunk a blade in his back. Before the king could cry out in his betrayal, the clever maid surged forth and pressed her hands over his mouth, so that his screams would not be heard. They hacked him to death with the table knives, which still had bits of supper on the blades.”

“Rather gratuitous detail, don’t you think?” said Rikke.

“I’m fond of those,” he said, grinning.

“So the king was murdered in his own bed,” Rikke prompted. “What happened to the clever maid and the fool?”

“They escaped into the night unapprehended, and the guard did not discover the body of their king until morning, by which point they’d nearly reached the borders of the kingdom. And thus the clever maid and her fool lived the life they had bought by blood, the freedom they’d secured only through violence.”

“Hm,” Rikke said, thoughtful. “I hope you don’t share this story with children.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“You wouldn’t want a child to think murder an appropriate solution to his problems.”

“But that’s not the moral,” Bofur argued lightly. “The situation was life and death; the maid didn’t kill her king out of boredom or malice. She destroyed him to survive, to live a free life. Not a songbird in a pretty bladed cage, but a woman able to choose what she willed.”

“And the fool?”

Bofur shrugged. “The fool would have followed her anywhere. Fools are like that, you know. Offering their lifelong devotion at the drop of a hat. Hardly worth mentioning.”

“Why did you mention it, then?” said Rikke, her eyes narrowing.

“Because they still have a role to play,” Bofur said. “If it’s getting burned up by dragons, or following fierce women to the ends of the earth.”

“Hm.” Rikke said nothing for a long moment. “So I asked you why you tell stories, and you launched into this tale as if it were the answer.”

“But it _is_ the answer,” said Bofur, unable to contain his intensity. “I can hardly offer up all my secrets today, otherwise I’ll never see you again. So if you want the answer to this odd question, you’ll have to come by tomorrow.”

She made a sound like laughter. “You could have said as much instead of launching into a recitation.”

“Aye, well. I like the sound of my own voice,” he told her.

“I can’t say I’m pleased at filling the role of the king in this comparison,” said Rikke, but he caught the smile on her face, so quick that he might have missed it if he wasn’t looking.

“Maybe it’s an inept comparison,” Bofur allowed. “Or maybe you shouldn’t look at it that hard.”

“Maybe.” With that, she stood and shrugged into her cloak, wrapping it snug around her shoulders. “Thank you for the conversation. It was . . . more enjoyable than I had a right to expect.”

“Now, if that isn’t the most backhanded compliment I’ve ever received in my life, I don’t know what is,” Bofur laughed aloud, standing as well. “Have a fine evening.”

She said nothing, but before she pushed out of the tavern, she turned back to him and offered one tentative wave over her shoulder, and he might have mistaken it from the distance, but he almost thought that she smiled again.

He would look back at the moment and see the small hands that had shaped it, the machinations of a clever child, who plotted in only the best of ways, for the best of reasons. At the moment, sitting in a crowded tavern and watching her as if he had a full right to, as if they already belonged to one another, he praised what he’d mistaken for his own fortune.

It was an easy enough mistake to make.

 


	6. Chapter 6

April faded into May, and still their journey east progressed without incident. Bilbo was inclined to be thankful for this development, but it made the dwarves of the Company nervous. Thorin looked out at the world as if expecting it to personally wrong him in some new way, and the rest of the dwarves did not fare well under their leader’s bitter paranoia. His young nephews Fíli and Kíli were prone to affecting Thorin in whatever way they could manage, which at the moment amounted to a lot of brooding.

Bilbo wasn’t usually one to question a good thing, but perhaps a life of wandering had bred in these dwarves an expectation of disaster. He said as much one night, after they had camped for supper.

“Aye, that’s right. You’ll learn it soon enough,” Gloin said, and his voice had taken an ominous air. The others nodded darkly.

“You can’t have had much reason to expect the shite to hit you in the face in the Shire, now,” Kíli said as if he were the reigning expert on all matters of the world. “What’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to you there?”

“Stubbed your toe on the way to getting your post?” said Fíli, to the snickers of the group at large.

“Dropped the letters in a puddle?” Kíli offered.

“An evening of mildly unpleasant weather?”

“A whole day of it?”

“Imagine that!”

Bilbo very dearly wanted to say that it had been the arrival of thirteen coarse and rude strangers who had forced their way into his home and nearly destroyed it with their revelry, but instead he muttered, “Something like that,” to the amusement of the group.

“Here, now,” cut in Bofur, and though he wore an easy smile, his tone was firm. “A simple life and peaceful sensibilities are nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Aye, maybe not,” Kíli allowed.

Lately, Bofur had taken to defending Bilbo when fireside conversation turned to the subject of him and his woeful inexperience, and much to Bilbo’s surprise, the rest of the company would listen to the miner. It didn’t surprise him that Bofur’s kin heeded his gentle scolding – they hardly said anything to the rest of the group anyway – but even the noble warriors like Dwalin and Gloin drifted to other matters of conversation.

And Bilbo wondered, then; not that he minded being defended, but why would such esteemed dwarves of equally esteemed lineage listen to a common miner?

-

Bofur should have expected his younger brother to catch on after his display that evening, but he felt oddly concussed, and as such he was unable to be less obvious about his happiness. That he not only had an opportunity to speak with Rikke tonight, but could expect to do so again tomorrow night was more than he’d hoped to wish for himself, and this sudden reversal of fortune had made him feel uncontrollably giddy.

He knew that look on his brother’s face; his thick brows nearly a straight line over worried eyes, lips pursed in unhappiness. Bombur was building up toward one of his famous lectures, yet Bofur could hardly find the resources within himself to care. If he hadn’t already been exhausted from his shift in the mines, he might have broken into obnoxiously optimistic song and driven the stragglers out of the tavern. As such, he contented himself with humming under his breath as he worked a spare bit of wood he’d had in his pocket into a figure of a smiling warg, which bore blunted nubs instead of razor-sharp fangs.

After Bombur pushed out into the commons, Bofur trailed after him, stuffing the half-finished carving into one of his pockets. He could see the lecture working its way through Bombur’s thoughts, and for some reason he found the image to be quite funny. “Spit it out, Bombur,” he said amiably as they filed into their home, Bofur pulling the door shut behind him. “I can’t bear the suspense.”

“I’d say the cause of your affliction these last few weeks has become clear,” said Bombur slowly.

“What affliction is that?”

“Not eating, not sleeping, drifting around as if in a haze, all those melancholy songs.” Bombur’s lips twisted in a deep frown, and it was an expression altogether unfamiliar on his face. “It’s that woman.”

“Which?”

“Don’t be glib.”

Bofur snorted. “You must not know me very well.”

“Bofur . . .” His brother heaved a sigh. “You know it’s not a good idea.”

“I don’t know what you mean by ‘it’,” Bofur said, “I enjoy the company of a specific person. It’s hardly a declaration of eternal devotion.”

Bombur made a derisive noise. “Are you so addled you’ve forgotten who you’re speaking to?” he said. “I know you, and I know how you are. Drop the japes and speak to me plainly.”

“What do you want me to say? That I know it’s hopeless? I do. That I know nothing can come of it? I know that, better than you.” He let out a terse breath. “It’s as if you think I’ve done this to myself for laughs.”

“Of course I don’t think that,” Bombur said, frowning. “But I’m not sure you understand.”

“Then be so kind to explain it to me, because apparently my mental faculties have failed.”

Bombur ignored the sarcasm, fixing Bofur with an intent expression. “She’s a widow, aye? Her husband might have died, but she belongs to him still. You know that.”

Bofur did know that, though he’d been trying very hard to forget. “Aye.”

“It’s not as if you can simply decide you want each other and that’s the end of that. There are rules . . . and you’re not looked on kindly if you go about ignoring them for your own reasons. She won’t be, and you wouldn’t either. I don’t want that to happen to you.”

In this, Bofur’s greatest strength and greatest failing came to the fore: his inability to think of himself in matters like these. He thought the tradition of dwarven women to remain in a lifetime of mourning for their departed husbands was unjust (and also illogical, as dwarven women accounted for a mere third of the overall populace). He’d heard the rationale – it was respectful, supposedly. It spoke to pride, the unfortunate assumption that women were possessions, and that ownership remained even after death. His own preference mattered little; all he saw was Rikke’s sadness, and how tragic it was that she should be forced to belong to man who had abandoned her and, according to her own daughter, who she’d never cared for much.

So when Bomber spoke of Bofur’s reasons, he couldn’t have known they amounted to little more than the happiness of a person he hardly knew.

“You are good to be concerned for me,” Bofur finally said, forcing the hard words past his suddenly dry throat. “As I don’t seem to know how to be concerned for myself any longer.”

Bombur clapped a gentle hand on Bofur’s shoulder. “You never have,” he said, his voice so much like pity that it registered as pain.

After a sad attempt at finishing the batch of toys he’d meant to sell tomorrow, he crawled into bed like a man defeated, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw swirling patterns whirl beneath his eyelids. Bombur was the first to drift off – he could hear his brother’s breathing deepen and slow only after a few minutes of putting out the light – but Bifur remained awake for much longer, his breathing much too quiet for sleep.

It would be foolish to say that Bofur hadn’t considered any of this, but it was the truth as well. He’d been charmed into foolishness, even more so than his natural proclivity toward it. He’d met a woman who intrigued and fascinated him, a woman more beautiful than he’d ever seen in his life. Beyond seeking out the pleasure of her company, he had not considered the future or the implications. He had not weighed his own desire against what was appropriate. He’d only seen the possibility of her smile.

He was not a particularly contrary person. He’d never flouted the traditions of his race in such a way before, or even felt the desire to. He’d hardly call himself respectable, but he was no maverick either. He’d never had cause to think about it much.

Besides, he was no noble or warrior, for whom the codes and traditions of his race were especially stringent. He was a cowardly miner. He’d spent his entire adult life digging through the mountain, breathing the dust and straining his eyes in the darkness, so much that he suspected he would always have dirt and dust ground into the callouses on his hands and fingers.

The futility might have concerned another dwarf, might have even made them consider abandoning the entire effort, but Bofur found the thought of going without her company repulsive. He had no expectation toward anything, really, so his brother’s warning wasn’t needed. He didn’t expect her to throw away her life and her standing in favor of him; really, he expected nothing. Every moment she spent speaking with him was a gift he had no right to expect.

So he made a selfish decision, then; possibly the first in his adult life. It would have been better to cut her out, but the thought of doing so did not even merit consideration. He would accept separation the moment she tired of him – that inevitable day -- but not a moment before.

He drifted off not long after reaching this decision, and for the first time since he was a boy, he slept well into the late afternoon. His dreams were odd; splintered by flashes of light and crumbling darkness, and auburn that coiled to an impossible length.

He even slept through the arrival of Riva, who hovered outside his door until his brother sent her away, telling her that he wasn’t feeling well and he needed rest, and that she could come by tomorrow as was their custom.

“Is he sick?” she asked Bombur, in a small voice.

Bombur had sighed. “In a manner of speaking.”

“Will he be all right?”

He stooped down to her level. “He just needs rest.”

“Tell him I hope he feels better.”

“I’ll do so, lass.”

When Bofur finally woke, he felt as if he had slept for many years; he half expected the world around him to be covered in dust and decay. He grinned and filed that detail away, for he suspected it would make an amusing story for the children.

Bombur was creating a meatless concoction for Bifur, who gazed on with interest as Bombur liberally added sage and basil. The two of them looked up when he entered the room, Bombur being the first to react. “It’s good to see you among the living once again,” he joked, bringing a ladle of stew to his lips and blowing to cool it.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” Bofur groaned, rubbing his eyes.

“You needed the rest.”

“The day’s nearly done,” he groused. “Bifur’s sold his toys already and – and Riva –“

“I told her you’d see her tomorrow,” said Bombur neutrally. “She hopes you’re feeling better.”

“I wasn’t feeling ill to begin with.”

Bombur pinched his brow with his free hand. “Sometimes I think you like making yourself miserable, so you’re better able to play the martyr.”

“Then I suppose I’m lucky I have such patient, understanding kin. Martyrdom’s no good when it’s fallen on uncaring ears,” Bofur said, smirking.

He grabbed a handful of warm rolls that Bombur had laid out before cutting through the room and opening the door. “Where are you off to?” Bombur asked him.

“Getting a drink,” he said, muffled by one of the rolls in his mouth. “You know.”

Bombur was not convinced. “Is that all?”

Bofur swallowed and fixed his brother with an incredulous stare. “Sometimes I think you forget I’m the elder and you’re the younger, the way you mother me so.”

“Aye,” Bombur agreed, sour. “Maybe if you’d prove you’ve no need of mothering.”

“Well, now you’re just trying to be hurtful,” Bofur said, a grin pulling at his lips.

“I wouldn’t have to be if kind words got through that thick skull of yours.”

In the corner, Bifur snorted, biting his lips against a grin.

“I see what this is. Well, now you’ve forced me to go nurse my wounds with a good ale and better conversation.” Bofur pushed through the door and stuff the other roll in his mouth. “Have a fine evening,” he called, muffled by the food.

“At least have some stew!” Bombur called as the door shut between them.

Bofur ignored this and pushed through their poor neighborhood, through the narrow alleys of stone-hewn homes and into the commons. He felt a hard knot of apprehension coil in his gut as he moved through the streets, for he worried that he’d slept through the entire day and left Rikke unmet at the Three Stone, and that was an offense he did not imagine he’d ever be able to forgive himself for.

But when he pushed through the tavern door, swallowing the heart in his mouth, he saw her at the table they had occupied the previous night, her beautiful hair like an auburn cascade down her back. She turned when she heard the door close, and he wondered if his eyes deceived him, or if that was a real smile on her face.

“Good evening,” she said as she approached.

“And to you,” he said, sweeping the hat off his head and sinking into an exaggerated bow. “You weren’t waiting for me, were you?”

She gestured to the seat across from her, and he took it gratefully. “I was.”

“Not long, I hope?”

“A few hours.”

He felt shame threaten to bring him low. “I don’t suppose a mere apology will suffice, will it?”

“It would,” she told him. “Though I’m becoming quite familiar with your proclivity toward exaggeration, so I doubt it’ll suffice for yourself.”

“I suppose that’s all you really need to know about me,” he grinned, taking an ale from one of the barmaids. “Thank you for waiting.”

“It was little trouble,” Rikke said, shrugging. “May I ask what kept you?”

“Ah – I was . . . I was sleeping, actually.”

Her gaze became incredulous. “So late in the day?”

“Aye,” he muttered.

“I see. Do you make a habit of sleeping so late?”

“No! Of course not. I’m hardly some stuffed up noble, where sleep is the only definitive cure for boredom. I haven’t been sleeping lately, and I suppose it all caught up with me last night.”

She was quiet for a moment, picking at her folded hands. “I hope I am not the cause.”

“You’re not! I mean – you were, but not like – not like that.”

Perhaps one day he’d achieve some measure of control over his tongue, but it did not seem like today would be that day, or would it be any day soon. He took an ambitious swig of ale and prayed for something to say that would erase this disaster, but before he could consider his options, the door to the tavern flew open once again, revealing the young man he’d met in the archive with a stoutly determined look on his face.

Ori’s expression brightened in recognition when he saw Bofur, and he weaved through the narrow aisles, clutching a book to his chest. He teetered precariously, keeping his balance only through great effort, before coming to a stop at Bofur’s table.

“Mr. Bofur!” he exclaimed, clutching his knees as he struggled to catch his breath.  “I was looking in the archive, and I found something, and I came straight away, and –“

“Ori, lad! Where are you manners?”  Bofur cut in, swallowing his panic and plastering a bright smile on his face.

“Ah, but I found –“

“Your _manners,”_ said Bofur, this time with more emphasis. “This here is my friend, the lady Rikke. Rikke, this is Ori, another good friend of mine.” Bofur shot the boy a look and prayed that Ori would see how strained and brittle his smile had become, hoping desperately that he would understand the meaning and just _shut his mouth._

“It is fine to meet you, Ori,” said Rikke, inclining her head politely.

For his part, Ori seemed to have lost the power of coherent speech, his already wide eyes growing wider as he digested the situation. “Oh . . . oh . . . _oh,”_ he breathed. “Oh!”

Rikke frowned. “Are you touched in the head, boy?”

“No!” Ori exclaimed. “I – it’s fine to meet you,” he said in a rush, shoving the book back into his satchel. “I’ve just remembered something that I – that I forgot. Yes. Good bye!”

And he was gone as quickly as he’d come.

“What an odd boy,” Rikke said, watching the door that still rattled in its frame, nearly audible over the rowdy songs a large group in the corner sang.

“He means well,” Bofur equivocated.

“I will take your word for it,” she said, and she turned back to him with a thoughtful expression on her face. “Why do I have the feeling your life is full of such people?”

Bofur shrugged, grinning. “Like attracts like, I suppose.”

He’d have to remember to thank Ori for providing such a fortuitous distraction, for Rikke seemed to have either forgotten his disastrous confession from a few moments before, or decided not to acknowledge it – either of which he was perfectly satisfied with. He resolved to keep better care of what he revealed, for he had the feeling if he gave away too much, he would scare her away. And in that manner, the situation would be decided for him.

It was an enchanted evening; one he suspected would live on brightly in his memory for the rest of his life. He drank too much, perhaps, and that loosened what little control he had over his tongue. But as the evening progressed into night, he saw that her smile was less conscious, and far more freely given. At one moment, she even laughed; a polite thing, hidden behind her hands. But far more lovely than laughter had any right to be.

He entertained a brief, impossible thought; one fueled by pride and the thrilling strangeness that had settled between them. But it was hard not to believe that perhaps she was as charmed by him as he was by her when he caught the brightness of her gaze trained on him, watching him for details, little things. It was largely impossible, for she was a fine, beautiful lady and he was a lowly miner who made lowly crafts on his day of rest and surround himself with foolish thoughts, but in the darkened haze of the Three Stone, there was a moment where he believed it could be the truth.

“Now,” he said to her much later, leaning close. “I seem to remember exacting a promise from you, my fair lady.”

“Oh?” she said, taking a polite sip of her ale. “I don’t recall offering any promises.”

“You must have a memory like a sieve, then,” he teased. “I would remember it even if I forgot everything else in the world.”

“Would you?” she said mildly, lips twitching. “That couldn’t possibly be an exaggeration.”

“I do tell the truth without embellishment, at times,” said Bofur. “However infrequently.”

“Indeed. Tell me of this promise I’m supposed to have given you.”

“You promised to tell me about yourself,” he told her. “You know everything about me, and I know almost nothing about you.”

“I doubt I know everything about you,” she said, arching a skeptical brow.

“You know everything important,” he insisted. “And I know next to nothing. It’s hardly fair.”

“Life often isn’t fair,” said Rikke softly. She considered him for a long moment, but before he could tell her to forget about it, she spoke once again, and there was an odd speculative cast to her features. “You’re fond of telling stories,” she said. “Are you fond of hearing them?”

“I am,” he said, swallowing his excitement. “I so rarely have the chance for it, too.”

“I wonder why,” she said, a note of skepticism in her voice. “When it’s often a struggle to be heard over you.”

“You make me sound abominably rude,” he said, clutching his chest as if he’d suffered a dire wound. “Surely I’m not as bad as that?”

“Perhaps not,” she allowed. “Are you interested in my story, or would you rather tell one of you own?”

He mashed his lips together and gestured excitedly for her to proceed. “I will say not another word,” he promised devoutly.

“I find that exceedingly difficult to believe.” She paused for a moment, waiting for him to protest, but he kept his lips firmly sealed and nodded for her to proceed. A small grin played at her lips as she turned away, considering. “Suddenly, this is much more difficult than I expected,” she confessed quietly. “I thought it would be easy to do.”

“You need not have stage fright on my account,” he told her. “I’m a forgiving audience.”

“And a noisy one,” she grinned.

“Ah – you’ve tricked me!”

“Hardly a challenge, that,” she scoffed, examining her nails.

“Aye, take advantage of the fact that I am considerate and kind,” he teased. “It encourages me to continue such behavior.”

“Yes, you’re very maligned,” she said. “Now stop making me laugh. This is not a funny story, and it’ll ruin the effect if you have me laughing halfway through.”

“Forgive me,” he said, but he smiled.

She took a breath, closing her eyes. “Many years ago, there was a daughter born to a household of sons –“

“You’re cheating,” he accused. “I know the story of Aylá.”

“It’s not the same story,” she said with some of her old temerity. “They begin the same, but they end quite differently. May I continue?”

He shut his mouth and gestured in apology. “Please.”

“Just like Aylá, she was unwanted and forgotten. Her mother survived her birth, but it made little difference to the girl, for both her mother and father vastly preferred their two sons, and wasted no time in speaking of their endless accomplishments.

“They were refugees of Erebor. The girl grew up hearing tales of the vast kingdom there, though she’d never seen it herself; the city as fine and grand as anything in this world, the Great Forge, where the mastercrafts were created. The tales of the Forge were what kindled in her an obsession inappropriate for a woman in our days. Her family was Durin’s folk, but endlessly proud of that slim relation regardless – and thus the girl was informed there were certain expectations of a daughter of her bloodline. She was to learn … what was it you called them? Ah – soft pursuits. Song and stitching and minding a home. The things a bird learns while they watch the world from beyond their cage.”

“I imagine the girl was not satisfied with this,” Bofur said.

“Aye, she was not. Her passion lay in smithing, and the craft of arms and armor. She knew such a pursuit would not be allowed of a daughter of a fine family, but she thought herself clever. She still believed that with sufficient will and intelligence, she could shape her world.”

“Does she no longer believe that?” asked Bofur quietly.

“No,” said Rikke, her voice like a blade. “She does not. The girl – she bound her breasts flat and padded her shoulders under a worn tunic of her brother’s, and she fashioned a short beard from stitching the ends of her long hair – just enough that no one would see her for what she was. Instead of trudging to her apprenticeship with the seamstresses, she followed the young men to the forge, and there she learned the practice of her passion for ten happy years.”

“She wasn’t discovered in that time?” Bofur asked.

“No, not then,” said Rikke. “She bribed her mistresses with fine possessions she’d been given throughout the years, and when those ran out, with the slim wages she earned from selling her works. And she grew skilled.” Rikke’s eyes grew far away, as if she watched some distant place over Bofur’s shoulder. “She wasn’t as strong as the young men, but her crafts were solid and fine. She kept her head down and worked harder than they did. Though the deception was difficult at times – she would have to wash the soot and forge-stink out of her hair, and bind the burns carefully, so that her parents would not ask questions -- she was happy. She was happier than she’d ever been.”

“Was,” Bofur echoed.

“Aye,” Rikke sighed. “As it often goes with these stories, one day she was discovered by her mother, who saw her putting on her false beard and padded shoulders, passing herself as a man. She was incensed; she dragged the girl by her hair through their estate to stand before her father and confess her sins, and he was equally furious. It was decided that they could no longer wait, for in allowing her a few years before signing her off in marriage, they’d allowed her to entertain foolish notions of stories and Great Forges, and that could not be allowed.”

“Mahal above,” Bofur breathed.

Rikke took a steady breath through her nose. “She was quickly married to a much older man; a warrior. Those were dark years, for he was an unkind husband, and her parents had warned him of her tricks and proclivity toward deception. He hardly needed to be told that her fascination with smithing and crafting was hardly appropriate in a good wife, so he trapped her and treated her like a possession – the crowning ornament to his glory. And she was told that she was lucky and that all marriage is like that – that she was fortunate to be cared for so well, no matter that he’d taken away her freedom and treated her like an object for pleasure and the security of his line.”

She spoke of things Bofur had suspected all his life, but hearing of them in such a blunt manner made him feel sick. He couldn’t imagine treating any woman like that, let alone _this_ woman. He couldn’t imagine treating her as less than himself, when he knew for certain that she was so much more. He thought of her late husband, and though it was terrifically bad luck to think ill of the dead, Bofur found he could have quite happily sunk his fist in that fool’s nose for daring to treat her so badly.

“It took her many years to become pregnant,” Rikke said softly. “And then she failed her husband in yet another way, for the child was a girl, and not the son he wanted. Her husband was furious, but the girl-turned-woman loved her daughter instantly. She knew they were together in this bleak world. And so they’ve been ever since.”

Bofur cleared his thick throat. “And – and the husband?”

“The stupid creature got himself killed by goblins,” Rikke said viciously. “He was not mourned by his wife, or his young unwanted daughter.

“She thought at first that she might finally enjoy freedom as a widow, but it seemed that the day she was born was a cursed day, for bad luck followed her throughout. Her brothers were killed in battle as well, and in their grief, her parents ended their lives. The kingdom of Erebor seemed very far away to them, I suppose, and the prospect of living for their daughter and granddaughter was not enough to inspire in them a desire to live.

“It became clear that her husband was a fool with his money, and after his death, his debts were called. The woman and her daughter were left with nothing – no home, no possessions to their name. The only skill with which the woman was comfortable was smithing, and that was barred to her, for the smiths of these mountains knew her face and her tricks. So she took a position at a seedy tavern with a foul proprietor who believed she belonged to him, but she couldn’t complain.” Rikke paused, taking a slow breath. “It’s the most freedom she’s ever known in her life.

“She thinks about the mountain of Erebor every now and then, the Great Forge that’s lain still and silent for many years. She knows it is a vain, stupid wish that houses a dragon. But she thinks that if ever it was cleared of Smaug, she would return there and ply her passion and trade.”

Neither of them spoke for a long moment. Bofur was a fairly talkative man, and he could usually find something light and foolish to fill an uncomfortable silence, but in this moment that dubious skill failed him. All he saw was Rikke, watching her twisted hands in her lap, the incredible sadness in her eyes that he now knew the reason for. And he could not speak.

“I can see why you’re so partial to this,” she said finally, as if from far away. “It’s easier to speak of these things if I refer to myself as a character, and everything is so far removed that it could never touch me.”

“It does help getting around the thornier parts,” Bofur agreed quietly.

“Here, now,” she said, leaning closer. “I did not tell you this for pity, or to extinguish your joy. Please tell me I haven’t done so.”

He took a steadying breath, and plastered a false grin on his face. “Nothing could do that.”

In his life, he’d grown quite skilled at smiling even when he felt like doing anything but, and for the most part those smiles fooled those around him. But Rikke was not tricked; she looked at him searchingly, with a degree of unmet expectation, and he wondered if the more they spoke, the easier it was for her to see right through him, past the brittle smile, to everything he concealed.

“Well,” she said finally. “There’s the answer to my promise.”

“That couldn’t be everything,” he disagreed.

“They’re the important parts,” she said, echoing him from earlier.

“Aye, if you say.” He considered for a moment. “Thank you for telling me.”

“You’re welcome,” she said with some surprise. “I’ve never spoken of it before, and it’s . . . strange to do so.”

“But a relief too, I would imagine,” he offered desperately.

She considered him, her dark eyes oddly penetrating. “It seems so.”

He fought a strange impulse to take her hands in his own and hold them tightly, partly to offer comfort, and partly because the desire to touch her had become nearly a constant presence in his thoughts – that unmet question, the wonder of what she’d feel like against him, skin to skin. But before he could act (or otherwise), she cleared her throat and got to her feet.

“I should go home,” she said quietly.

“Could I come with you?” he blurted, shooting to his feet as well. “I – I mean, could I take you?” He resisted the urge to just declare the whole thing a wash right that moment and head for home, but amazingly she smiled, and whatever furious things he’d thought evaporated.

“Not tonight,” she said, covering her smile behind her hands. “Have a fine evening, Bofur.”

“You as well,” he echoed as she departed.

He did not stay long after she left. He wandered home, and he imagined the few passers-by marked him as a drunk, by the way he shambled forward, his gaze unfocused and unseeing. It would have been easier if he was, he thought dimly. It would have been easier if it was anything but this, which grew by the day and had the unfortunate, terrifying feel of permanence.

 

 

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Bilbo didn’t expect the young nephews of Thorin to feel guilty about anything they said or did. They were essentially nobles, their uncle’s only heirs, and Bilbo imagined with that status came a great sense of entitlement; a suspicion that the world bent and conformed to their expectation. But the next evening they trudged up to him with mirrored expressions of guilt, and in that moment, they looked much younger than their years.

“Mr. Bilbo?” said Kíli.

“Yes? What can I do for you?”

They paused, seeming to consider their transgression as one, instead of two separate people. “You know we were just joking the other night,” Fíli said slowly. “Right?”

“We didn’t mean any harm. _Don’t_ mean any harm,” Kíli added fervently. “Just that you’re so . . . you’re a …”

“Tender-foot, I think was the term,” Bilbo said mildly.

“Right! Tender-foot,” Kíli said, completely unaware that ‘tender-foot’ wasn’t exactly a polite thing to call someone. “Exactly.”

“We just wanted to say were sorry,” Fíli said earnestly as Kíli nodded at his side. “And that we’re glad you’re our burglar.”

“Well . . .  thank you,” said Bilbo, taken aback. “I think. I’m – well, this hasn’t been as unpleasant as I feared it would be.”

Kíli clapped Bilbo on the shoulder with so much force that it almost sent him sprawling into the dirt, and it occurred to Bilbo that he was still so young, and still growing accustomed to his strength. “That’s the way,” he chuckled.

“Besides,” said Fíli. “This will likely be dangerous, but there’s gold in it for you, Mr. Bilbo. And glory too.”

“More than you could shake your walking stick at,” Kíli said.

Something seemed to come over Fíli then, for his easy smile faded, replaced by an expression of fervent intent. “And we won’t let anything happen to you,” he said.

“We promise,” Kíli echoed.

“I mean . . . because I was thinking what it would have been like if I journeyed with Uncle before I’d learned how to fight and survive, and I know I wouldn’t be handling it half as well as you.”

Kíli smirked. “Not even close.”

Fíli ignored this. “Just wanted to make sure you knew that,” he said. “I know us and the lads poke fun, but we don’t mean anything by it.”

“And I know Uncle can be a bit . . .” Kíli trailed off, considering.

“. . . stern,” Fíli said charitably.

“Bit hard, really,” Kíli amended.

“A grouch, you mean,” Bilbo said, not amused.

“Well . . .” Both looked as if they would rather not confirm this out of loyalty to their kin, and Bilbo could respect that. “Anyway. He means well, too.”

“Just that he’s lost a lot, you know,” said Fíli.

“He saw Erebor fall,” added Kíli in a hushed voice. “His home.”

“ _Our_ home.”

“Aye. Our home.”

The three of them fell into silence after that, watching the leaping patterns of the campfire dance in the night, and Bilbo wondered if they were imaging instead the fire of a dragon, burning the roaring pines to ash, laying waste to everything it touched. And in that moment, Bilbo felt an odd kinship with the nephews of Thorin – and Thorin himself, for that matter-- for he loved his home quite desperately, and he could not imagine bearing the loss of it.

Bilbo was jolted from his musing by the sight of Kíli smirking at his brother, throwing an elbow in his ribs and nodding toward the other end of the campsite, where Bofur and Ori sat together, speaking in low voices. Ori was scribbling furiously on a loose sheaf of paper while Bofur spoke, gesturing widely as if giving shape to the landscape around him.

“What’s so special about this camp that he wants a drawing of it?” Fíli wondered.

“Overzealous,” Kíli laughed. “It wouldn’t be funny if Ori minded.”

“What are you talking about?” Bilbo asked them.

Kíli leaned closer. “So you know he makes these little carvings for his widow, right?”

“Not technically his widow,” Bilbo corrected automatically.

“Is that what he says?” Fíli snickered. “That poor sod.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She’s his and he’s hers. It’s very sweet,” Kíli said, grinning in a manner that was too earnest to be mocking.

“So he makes these carvings, aye?” Fíli explained. “But he’s terrible at the pencils.”

“Looks like the scratchings of a beast,” Kíli put in helpfully.

“Completely illegible. He’d draw a house and you’d think it was a cat. And so on.”

“So he has Ori do it for him. Sketch the scenery and the like.”

“Though I don’t know why he doesn’t just spin it all in one of his stories.”

“He’s fond of those,” Kíli added.

Bilbo knew it wasn’t fair-handed, but he was curious about his friend, who had the unfortunate and irritating habit of being vague when referring to himself. So he decided to strike while the iron was hot. “You knew the widow?”

“Oh, aye,” said Fíli. “We used to see her around before her husband died.”

“What happened after he died?” Bilbo wondered.

“His debts were called, and she had to move away,” Kíli said. “I heard she was working at some tavern outside the mountain last.”

“Before that, though, we saw her around every now and then,” Fíli said.

“Staring off into the distance,” Kíli added. “You used to think she was in mourning before her husband even had died.”

“Was she very beautiful, then?” Bilbo wanted to know.

The brothers looked at each other for a moment, considering their answer. Finally, Kíli shrugged. “Eh . . . pretty, I would say.”

“I thought she was beautiful,” Fíli argued. “In an odd way.”

“Beautiful?! You want a woman with a bit of hair on her, though,” Kíli said, grinning mischievously. “She had barely any.”

“Not true,” Fíli argued. “Her hair went down well past her waist.”

“I was talking about the hair on her face. Or lack thereof.”

“You hardly have room to talk.” Fíli retorted before turning back to Bilbo. “Hers was the prettiest color I’d ever seen, too.”

“You must not have seen much,” Kíli teased. “I thought it was common, myself.”

“That’s because you have no taste.”

“Are you trying to wound me?” Kíli hissed, delighted.

Fíli ignored this with great dignity. “I’d say she was beautiful.”

“Pretty,” Kíli shrugged again. “Not unfortunate.”

“Not even close.”

Bilbo let them argue amongst themselves without really paying attention. He hadn’t really expected the subject of her beauty to be a contentious one, but he supposed it didn’t surprise him too terribly. It made an odd sort of sense that Bofur would be so addled to see her as perfect, even if objectively she was not.

In Bofur, Bilbo had found a walking study of what love was capable of, and on the whole he found it a nasty, uncomfortable business. He had enough trouble with the wide open world when he was in his right mind.

\--

The next day, Bofur went to the archive after his shift at the mines had ended. He intended to seek out Ori and apologize for the mishap at the Three Stone the day before, but when he caught sight of the lad across the musty room, Ori seemed to have forgotten all about it, for he rushed to Bofur’s side with an expression of extreme excitement.

“Bofur!” he cried, taking Bofur’s filthy hand in his own and pumping it up and down. “I didn’t think I’d see you for a few days yet!”

“Mahal above, boy,” Bofur said, steadying him. “Catch your breath.”

“Sorry,” Ori said, composing himself. He seemed to recall the events of the day before, for his expression fell. “I hope I didn’t – didn’t ruin things. Last night? At the Three Stone? With . . . your lady friend?”

“Actually, I’m inclined to think you saved my hide,” Bofur said easily.

“What?”

“I’d said something foolish, as is my custom, apparently. And before she could say anything, you barged in and gawped at her and made such a scene that she either forgot or decided she wasn’t interested in pursuing clarification.” Bofur grinned. “So thank you.”

“Oh! Well . . . you’re welcome,” Ori said, encouraged. “Glad I could help.”

“So you found something?” Bofur prompted, ignoring the irritating huffing of the other archive-minders behind him.

“Well, now that I had time to think about it, I realize it might not be exactly what you were looking for,” Ori qualified, suddenly shy. “Actually kind of violent and . . . just not applicable. I got excited, is all.”

“Let’s hear it anyway,” Bofur said kindly.

“Right. So a long time ago there was a warrior made of stone – I don’t think he was really made of stone, but that’s what it says in the text,” Ori said in a rush, gesturing as he spoke. “Everyone loved him because he was so powerful he could cut an orc in half with one swing of his sword. You know, I don’t think that’s true either. Anyway, the point is he was a great warrior.”

Bofur hadn’t remembered the boy being this sweetly literal, but it was definitely amusing. “Go on,” he said, grinning.

“He made a habit of watching the sun rise over the ramparts of his keep, in contemplation of all the brave deeds he was set to accomplish that day or something, when he saw a beautiful woman walking through the snow, her feet bare. The text doesn’t say anything about frostbite, you know, so I wonder at the accuracy of the tale, but anyways.”

“It’s likely symbolic, lad,” Bofur smirked. “I’d have thought you’d be more familiar with stories.”

“I’m a scholar,” Ori huffed. “What use is symbolism when you could say what you mean in clear language?”

“Because sometimes the best way to give shape to something is to liken it to something else,” Bofur explained patiently. “Or to obscure it partially, and draw attention to things that are resonant, but not necessarily true.”

“That makes no sense,” Ori said, his thick brows pulled together.

“Aye, perhaps it wouldn’t,” Bofur said. “Let’s hear the rest.”

“So the stone-warrior saw the bare woman walking through the snow, and he thought she was so beautiful that he felt the heart go out of him – which again, I don’t think is actually possible,” Ori put in stubbornly. “He decided he must have her, so he set about trying to persuade her to love him, but she wasn’t moved. He claimed that her beauty and grace surpassed even that of the elves, but his words didn’t move her. She found him violent and harsh. She said that she could never love a man who was better at destroying than creating.

“But instead of taking his lady’s words to heart, he grew only more prideful and angry, furious that she should dare to refuse him when he was so great and powerful. So he caught her and kept her in a cage, and after many years, the love in his heart turned to hatred. And . . .” Ori trailed off meekly. “And I suppose in that way he was cured.”

“It might seem that way,” Bofur said mildly. “Though I don’t think this warrior of stone loved her all that much.”

“But he said he did,” said Ori. “It’s all over the text.”

“I don’t think he knew what love was,” Bofur clarified.

“How do you know?”

“If he loved her truly, he wouldn’t have tried to keep her like a beast in a cage,” Bofur explained patiently. “He would have placed her happiness above his own, and if he was made to choose, he would have chosen hers without an ounce of resentment or regret. He wouldn’t have seen her as a possession or a prize, but a person – for all that’s good and ill. Do you understand?”

Ori pursed his lips. “I don’t know.”

“Well, it’s not necessary that you understand just yet,” said Bofur, laughing. “Likely this will never happen to you.”

“I . . . I would find that sad,” Ori said quietly. “It seems lovely, at times.”

“It can be.” Bofur rubbed the back of his neck. “It can be difficult just the same.”

They said nothing for a long moment, each of them absorbed in their own preoccupied musing. It seemed naïve to wish for something like this, when the practical part of him that held a steady job and kept steady hours resented the imposition. And yet . . . he found that as time went on with Rikke and Riva in his life, he did not care as much for that practical mind. Instead, he indulged in the part of him that told stories and wrote songs and dreamed, the part that seemed more like himself than any other.

\--

Bofur was not dour enough to always expect the worst, but at a certain point in his life he’d come to expect a balance of things. Should things go well, it was only a matter of time before they turned sour in equal measure. He’d held his breath in these last weeks, waiting for the hammer to fall, but he could not have ever anticipated how things would go wrong, or to the degree.

He woke that morning with an odd feeling, and it took him a moment to place the cause. He’d known Rikke and Riva for one month on this day, though at times it seemed to be both much shorter and much longer that. He washed, scrubbed his hands, and ate breakfast without properly engaging with Bombur and Bifur. The two of them had seemed to accept this change in Bofur as permanent, and they made little mention of it now, aside from the odd comment from Bombur, who would grumble about the foolishness of it all.

Bofur would smirk. He was fully aware of the foolishness. He’d come to terms with it.

He bid his brother and cousin goodbye before pushing out into the commons, blinking the sleep from his eyes. As was their custom, Riva was waiting for him, perched on a low wall, her legs swinging carelessly. “Good morning,” she called.

“Aye, if that,” he groaned in response. “Bit loud, aren’t you?”

“Are you hungover, Mr. Bofur?” she asked slyly.

“Of course not,” he managed. “Just tired.”

“Your eyes are red,” she noted. “You look like you’ve been sick.”

“Both of which happen when you don’t get enough sleep.”

She affected innocence. “Why ever aren’t you getting enough sleep, Mr. Bofur?”

“I imagine you know full well.”

“Aye,” she said, stifling giggles. “Likely for the same reason my mother isn’t getting enough sleep, either.”

“You’re far too clever for either of us.”

“That’s not true,” Riva said, a bit indignant. “You have to be at least a little clever to keep all those stories straight in your head.”

“Is that so? Good memory isn’t the same as cleverness.”

“But they’re related!” she insisted, hands on hips.

He decided to let it go. “All right. You win.”

She was quiet for a moment, trailing behind with a decidedly preoccupied expression on her face. “Do you ever think about doing something else?”

“What do you mean, lass?”

“I mean . . . you don’t really like mining.  Why don’t you do something you like better?”

“This is the only thing I can do,” he said gently. “I’m not a smith or a merchant. I make toys, but not nearly well enough to do it as Bifur does.” He shrugged, watching his fellow miners file one by one into the caverns, some of them already wearing their candles. “It’s steady work, and my kin need the steady wages.”

“It just doesn’t seem fair,” she said softly. “We should all be allowed to do what we love.”

“Aye, you’re right. But failing that, it’s better to make the best of what you have. No use in being upset over what you can’t change. Don’t you think?”

“I guess.”

“Here, now.” He tweaked her chin. “I’ll be broken-hearted all day if you don’t cheer up.”

“You will not,” she muttered, biting her lips to keep from smiling.

“I will so! Would you be so cruel?”

After a moment, she lost the battle against her amusement and flashed him a smile. “I’ll see you later,” she promised, turning and waving over her shoulder. He watched her go, though when she rounded the corner and disappeared he felt his own reflexive smile fade.

It was the same every day, for more years that he felt comfortable marking.  He followed his fellow miners into the cavern while ignoring the thickness in his throat, donning the metal crown and inserting a lit candle in its holder. He could see the line of them stretched as far as the tunnels went, hundreds of men with their faces illuminated as if from inside out, like a candle in a skull.

It was backbreaking, harrowing work. They mined in the west-chasm, for they’d found a sizeable vein there, and the foreman would not rest until they’d emptied it of its precious gems and ores. There was a thick feeling of panic in Bofur’s gut, though he hardly knew these days if it was his general reaction to mining or the portent of something more immediate. Instead, he concentrated on the node in front of him, feeling the burn the muscles in his back and shoulders, a trickle of sweat sliding down his back.

But his mind wandered, as it usually did now. He saw a bright girl that made him laugh, and a woman that he could not seem to forget. He saw the promise of a smile, and the pleasure of knowing that he’d brought her a little joy. He thought of the moment when he’d see her that night, and how time seemed to stretch and slow from the force of his anticipation.

A shrill whistle cut through his concentration, followed by a chorus of panicked shouts, and Bofur spun so wildly that the rope bearing his weight twisted the miners below him. Another whistle sounded, and then a great crack like the splitting of heavy stone, like thunder rolling across the plains --

“Rockfall!” someone screamed.

Bofur saw it happen from very far away. Across the chasm was another line of miners, about twenty of them, extending below his line of vision, dangling helplessly. He saw them twisting, clawing at the rock face in front of them, struggling to gain purchase as a cascade of boulders rained on their heads. Some of them were killed instantly, but the rest were carried by the landslide to the bottom of the cavern, their horrible screams echoing through the mine long after they’d struck ground.

\--

There were no songs that night at the Three Stone; only silence.

Bofur thought it might be respectful to play a lament for the men who had died, but he found that he couldn’t piece the melody together, or the words.  He drank deeply from his ale, though his hands trembled so badly the cup would not steady. He thought of the sight of those men careening down into the hungry darkness, and it took him a moment to realize that Bombur was speaking to him.

“Bofur?” he said, taking him gently the shoulder. “Can I get you something to eat?”

“Not tonight,” Bofur said, attempting a smile. “Just ale for now.”

He drank more than was appropriate, until the long, empty hours passed like minutes. He drank because otherwise he saw their faces and remembered their stories, their families, their hands moving to the shape of iglishmêk in the darkness. One of them had been Ori’s age – little better than a boy, now little better than dust at the bottom of a dark hole.

And he saw his own memories, then – memories that he actively ignored, but often resurfaced in his dreams. Knowing that his father had died in the same way. And his own fall --

He lurched to his feet and staggered to the door, though just as he was about to push through the door opened from the other side, revealing a wide-eyed Rikke, looking as if she’d run the entire length of the Blue Mountains themselves.

She was much too practiced to reveal anything, and he was much too addled to see in her eyes relief that went beyond words. “Good evening,” he said reflexively. “Though it isn’t, really.”

She processed this. “You were there?”

“Aye,” he said bluntly. “Watched it happen.”

“You’re drunk,” she said tenderly

“Aye.”

She said nothing for a moment, and though he might have been addled beyond his ability to process the world normally, he thought that it was lovely to see her – alive and unharmed. He might have been drunk at that, but he wasn’t too addled to feel guilty for being selfish enough to appreciate anything.

Finally, she spoke, resting her hand on his arm, so gently that he wouldn’t have known it to be there if he wasn’t watching her. “Let me take you home.”

And in the end, he was convinced by her concern. He allowed himself to be led through the silent streets, leaning into her warmth, and though it was inappropriate and foolish, he relished the tenderness of her touch that he had no right to expect. It took him a long time to notice that she trembled against him.

“Are you cold?” he asked her stupidly.

“I thought you’d been killed,” she said by way of an answer.

He was humbled by this. “I don’t mean to make you worry,”

“There’s nothing for it now, is there?” she asked, and her voice was bleak.

The trek home seemed to take a fraction of the time it normally did, and before he knew it he was looking at the filthy stone walls of the complex he lived in. For some odd reason, the sight of it was crushing, and he could not bear the thought of striding through the door under his own power. “Wait,” he said, pulling out of her grasp. “Just let me sit a while.”

He sat on the low wall surrounding the complex, where he’d seen Riva dangling her feet just a few hours before. It seemed like a lifetime had passed since then.

“You should get some rest –“ she began, but he gestured dismissively.

“I doubt I’ll be getting much sleep for a while,” he admitted, scrubbing his face.

“Bofur . . .”

“Would you sit with me?” he asked her before he could stop himself. Maybe he wouldn’t have stopped himself even if circumstances were normal, for the more he knew of her, the less he felt ashamed of desiring her company.

After a moment of hesitation, she took a graceful seat beside him, close enough that they were nearly touching. He thought that he could stay like this for the rest of his life, for even though they did not speak, there more comfort in her mere presence than anything she could have possibly said. That she had heard the news of the cave-in and thought of him immediately was thrilling in a selfish and foolish way.

“You knew them, then,” she breathed.

“Aye,” he croaked.  “Some for decades.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s part of the job,” he shrugged, sick at himself. “It’s happened to all of us, or someone we know. So you start expecting it. Every day you go into the mine, you say goodbye to everything and everyone you know, because that might be the day your rope snaps or a rockslide carries you away or a cave in crushes you into dust.”

She swallowed thickly. “And you have to do it?”

“It’s steady work,” he said for the second time that day. “It puts food on the table.”

“There are other things that do the same.”

“I’m no use at any of them.”

She was quiet a moment, picking at the skin around her hands. “It isn’t right,” she said finally, so softly that he might not have heard if he wasn’t watching her closely.

“You’re worried,” he said bluntly. And perhaps it was the alcohol that had given him the freedom to give shape to what had grown between them, but he thought it more likely that he’d reached a threshold, and he could no longer bear keeping its silence.

“I am,” she admitted. “I heard the news midday, just after it happened, and I thought . . . I couldn’t breathe. Ralor took a swipe at me because I dropped a tray of glasses. And it was . . . I had to work the rest of the day wondering if you’d been killed.”

“I’m sorry,” he managed, though he felt as if he could no longer breathe himself.

“It wasn’t anything you did,” she said, waving off his apology. “I mean – it was, but not anything wrong. Not anything you should apologize for.”

“All right.”

“I kept thinking of what I’d tell Riva,” she continued, picking one of her fingers so badly that it bled. “I thought about going back to a life where she never smiled, trudging around as dour and broken as I was as a child.”

“Rikke . . .”

“I kept thinking about being without your laughter and your stories, and your blatant exaggerations, and the way it is when you smile at me, and . . . it surprised me. This,” she gestured, her hands jerking in wordless frustration. “This surprised me.”

He thought it would be right to kiss her, then. He didn’t know the words to give her, and it seemed that they’d gone beyond the province of words in the short span of this conversation. All he knew was that he’d caused her to worry, and his capacity to give the comfort she deserved could not be encompassed by anything he could say.

He gently uncurled her tight fist, smoothing her fingers until she was pliant in his hands, and he laced his own through them. He thought a lifetime of smashing rock and ore had made his hands too rough for something like this – for a woman like this – but instead she softened into him.  She trembled again, though he knew she wasn’t cold.

“I wouldn’t have – I didn’t mean to make you worry,” he mumbled ineptly.

“Stop saying that,” she said. “It doesn’t matter what you meant. I worry anyhow.”

“You’re right.”

“I don’t know why you feel like you need to apologize, anyway,” she said, attempting to bring the conversation back to safer ground.

“I don’t like being the cause of your suffering,” he said seriously. “There’s been enough of it in your life.”

He watched a war play out on those beloved features; part of her feared, recoiling at his honesty, yet there was a part that had grown to crave it, to need it as desperately as one needs air. He watched her draw close and pull away, her free hand suspended between them by indecision. And he was addled and drunk and hopelessly foolish, and his heart ached from all that he’d seen and all that he wanted and didn’t deserve, but it was the look in her eyes that turned fear to a decision.

He moved first, he would remember that much. He brought his hand to her cheek so gently, afraid she would break, as if one sharp movement would shatter her, and all he knew from that moment on was that she did not pull away. Instead, she leaned into his touch and closed her eyes, and the sight of her savoring him was so acutely precious that he would never find the words for it, no matter how long he spun foolishness into stories. He kissed her, and he knew he would always remember her small gasp as he pressed his lips to hers, the way her hand curled under his, the way her skin felt, the scent in her hair – smoke and ale and a spice he did not recognize. He didn’t consider that this was wrong, that she belonged to a man long since returned to dust, that this was dangerous and she was just as likely to return this as she was to flee, and that he’d be unable to bear the absence of her.

Abruptly, she pulled away, and the sudden space between them was as painful as any wound. “I – I can’t –“

“I’m sorry –“

“No, I mean –“

She lurched to her feet, her hands frozen into anguished claws, and whatever shame he’d forgotten in those few moments came rushing back; he was stupid and foolish, and she was lovely and fine, and he should have known to keep himself under control, for he knew the look in her eyes, and it was likely he would never see her again after this.

“Good evening,” she whispered, then turned on her heel and fled. He watched her go without speaking, staring at the place where she’d disappeared long after she’d gone. When Bombur returned from his shift at the Three Stone, he found his elder brother frozen on the low wall, like a troll turned to stone by sunlight.


	8. Chapter 8

The Company had passed deep into the Lone Lands, and slowly the songs and stories around the campfire gave way to pensive silence. Conversations were carried in low voices, participants leaning close, the leaping firelight reflecting in their distant eyes.  Bilbo found as they travelled that he’d never imagined such a landscape could exist on this earth. There were no inns -- nothing for miles but pure untarnished wilderness -- and coupled with the remoteness of his companions, he felt very alone indeed.

Only Bofur made an effort to engage with him. “Doing all right, Bilbo?” he asked one evening, the block of wood and whittling knife firmly in his hands.

“Well enough,” Bilbo said, watching Bombur slowly stir the dinner with a look of great concentration on his face. “How much longer, do you think?”

“For dinner? Who knows?” Bofur shrugged. “My brother can be a bit of a perfectionist when it comes to food.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Bilbo said, for in his opinion, good food and good drink were things in life that deserved quite a bit of attention and care.

“Aye, maybe not,” Bofur grinned.

They sat in amiable silence, watching the fire illuminate the campsite with a warm glow, though the wilderness beyond was as thick and black as anything Bilbo had ever seen. In the distance, he heard something screech in the night, quickly followed by the sound of rustling branches. He drew closer to the fire, shivering.

“Do you think Gandalf will come back?” he finally whispered.

Earlier in the day, Gandalf had stormed off, muttering about the stubbornness of dwarves going beyond his ability to tolerate, leaving a stricken Bilbo in his wake. He’d come to rely on the presence of the wizard far more than any other, for Gandalf was skilled and powerful, and responsible for drafting Bilbo along on this adventure in the first place. He felt oddly lost without him.

“Aye, I expect he will,” Bofur said kindly, flicking Bilbo with a shaving. “He’s a wizard; he does what he chooses.”

“And if he chooses to abandon us?” Bilbo asked.

“Well, then he’ll have abandoned us,” Bofur shrugged. “You’ve no cause to fear; no harm will come to you, not while we’re breathing.”

Bilbo was only slightly assured, but he didn’t want to be rude to his friend. “I suppose I feel better already,” he managed.

Bofur wasn’t fooled. “You suppose, eh?”

“I – I mean –“

“Aye, don’t worry yourself,” Bofur cut in. “What’s a miner compared to a wizard? Or a cook? A toymaker?”

“I didn’t mean to say that you’re nothing compared to Gandalf,” Bilbo managed, a little cross. “You’re always putting words in my mouth.”

“Mostly because you’re funny when you’re mad,” Bofur smirked.

“I suppose I should be glad one of us is enjoying themselves,” Bilbo said sourly.

“I’m making the best of it,” Bofur said. “Even though there are things I’d rather be doing, and places I’d rather be.”

“People you’d rather be with?” Bilbo put in slyly.

“Maybe,” Bofur said, evasive. “My point is that this’ll all be worth it in the end. Sleeping on the ground, being cold and hungry, whatever trouble we end up getting into . . . missing something so badly it feels like the heart’s gone out of you. It’ll all be worth it.”

Bilbo had the distinct impression that Bofur was almost trying to convince himself of his words, and it occurred to him at that moment how desperately he must long for this woman he loved – how the days likely seemed to fill the space of a year, how every step east felt like traversing the world entire for the mere reason that it left her further behind.

“You’re right,” Bilbo said for Bofur’s sake, though he wasn’t quite sure he believed his words. “It’ll all be worth it.”

“It’s easier if you remember that,” Bofur told him, flicking away another shaving.

Bilbo decided to throw caution to the wind, for he’d grown rather tired of all the vague allusions Bofur was so fond of. “So you miss her, then.”

“Aye,” Bofur said after a moment, his voice soft. “I miss her terribly.”

“Why did you leave, if you didn’t want to leave her?”

Bofur did not respond immediately, instead whittling the rounded face of his carving, running one calloused thumb over its smooth surface. His eyes were incredibly distant, nearly devoid of their characteristic warmth, and Bilbo shivered at the sight of it. Finally, he spoke: “Once, there was a lady as fair as the spring, and as fierce as a winter storm.”

Bilbo was not amused. In the time they’d known each other, Bofur often deflected hard questions aimed at himself with japes and stories, and Bilbo had just about had enough. “If you don’t want to answer the question, I’d prefer you say nothing rather than waste my time with unrelated nonsense,” he groused bitterly.

“Have a little faith, Mr. Bilbo,” said Bofur with a sad smile. “Have a little faith.”

So Bilbo crossed his arms over his chest and uttered not another word of protest, though a buzzing temper had taken up residence in his ears. He gestured with tight irritation for Bofur to continue. “Had this fierce, fair lady a name?” Bilbo asked.

“Aye, perhaps she did,” said Bofur. “She’d as soon cut out your tongue than give it to you, though, and you’d be glad for the attention, so fair was she.”

“She sounds horrid,” Bilbo said.

“Maybe at first,” said Bofur gently. “Though you might have wondered what made her fierce, if you saw her. Because something about her spoke to the heart, in the way she looked out at the world, and in the way she carried herself, like a ruler among ashes.

“She had lived a life of loss, and hardship. And if you knew the extent of her suffering, you would have marveled that she managed to show her face to the world at all. That she preserved was a testament to her will, her ferocity.”

“She came upon a fool, one day in her weary wandering. And the fool loved her the moment he saw her. Not only for her fierceness, but for the possibility of a smile that she possessed, lovelier than the greatest beauty in our world.

“She was furious that the fool dared to speak to her, and more furious still when the fool presumed to sing to her and tell her stories. ‘You presume to blunder your way into my life and force your stories on me,’ she told him, and her voice was like a blade pressed to his neck. He told her: ‘If you wish me silent, you would only have to ask. For I would heed you, and no sound or song would ever escape my lips for as long as I lived.'

“Her gaze grew cold– this fierce lady, more vicious than a storm, more remote than the highest peak. ‘Every man I’ve ever known fills the air around them with empty words, and with them they create a storm, until you cannot see the truth for it shape or form. Why should I believe anything you say?’

“He told her that he couldn’t possibly expect to have earned her trust so quickly – not this fierce lady, who survived her sorrow-filled life through a combination of stubbornness and spite for those who had wronged her. He told her without telling that he would endeavor all his life to be worthy of loving her.

“For the fool knew that he knew nothing, and had nothing, and was nothing. He was no better than those others who filled the air around them with empty words, offering empty promises and leaving nothing behind but disappointment and bitter regret. And from the day he met that fierce, fair lady, he endeavored to deserve her, and to be everything she deserved.”

Bilbo said nothing. He hadn’t even begun to imagine that Bofur’s easy laughter and stories came from a place that was less amusement at the world and more one of pain, combed over and buried so many times that one would almost mistake it for nonexistence. “Maybe he really was a fool, then,” Bilbo said gently. “If he thought he had to try all that hard to be worthy.”

Bofur made a sound that would have been like laughter, had they been speaking of anything else. He craned around, and noting his brother doling out bowls of stew, he stowed his unfinished carving and got to his feet, passing two bowls of stew into Bilbo’s hands. “Do us a favor and get that to the lads.”

In that manner, the conversation was over. Bilbo wondered if he’d ever have a chance to speak so openly with Bofur again – never mind that this confession would have been seen as irritatingly obfuscating from anyone else.

With a sigh, Bilbo took the bowls of stew and threaded through the camp to the outskirts. The aroma was quite delicious, which had had more or less come to expect from Bombur’s cooking, and he looked forward to the chance to sit down with his own bowl and watch the stars above the tops of the trees, with nothing but silence and the opportunity to think a bit.

He saw the dark shapes of Fíli and Kíli just ahead, suspended and motionless by some indecipherable worry; they didn’t even turn when Bilbo crashed through the underbrush, spilling a bit of stew over his wrists. “I’ve got your dinner,” he called. “I hope you’re hungry!”

They did not respond, and as he drew level he saw that their faces were drawn in mirrored expressions of fraught horror.

“What is it?” Bilbo asked.

“We were watching the ponies,” said Kíli slowly. “Only . . .”

“We’ve lost two,” Fíli said.

Bilbo was incredulous. “How do you lose two ponies if you’re supposed to be watching them?” he demanded. “Just – never mind. We need to find them.”

“Right, yes!” Kíli said. “We’re right behind you.”

The three of them slunk through the low bushes of the forest, searching for any sign of the wayward ponies when they came upon an uprooted tree cutting across the path as if it had been ripped forcibly from the ground and tossed aside like a toy.

“Odd that the other trees aren’t uprooted as well,” said Bilbo, in what he hoped was a knowledgeable tone. “Like they would be if it was from a storm.”

“That’s because it was no storm,” said Fíli in an ominous voice.

“Then what was it?”

Kíli spoke, then, and his voice had dropped to a hush. “Trolls.”

\--

The first night after the cave in, Bofur did not sleep. Instead, he perched on a stool in front of the fire and watched the shape of the flames in the hearth, and in a way it was an odd relief, for he did not think or remember the disasters of the day. Yet he knew if he closed his eyes, they would resurface, just as before, all those years ago.

After a few hours of hovering in silence, Bombur went to sleep. Bofur did not blame his brother at all; if he had the capacity for sleep, he would have taken advantage of the same and slept for many years. But Bifur did not abandon his cousin. He perched beside Bofur in silent solidarity as the night grew long, only moving from his chair to offer Bofur tea and water at regular intervals.

“You don’t have to do that,” Bofur said, attempting a smile for his cousin, though it came out more like a grimace.

Bifur made a noise in the back of his throat and jerked his hands in the shape of some affirmative iglishmêk he still remembered.

“No reason for you to go without sleep too,” Bofur insisted.

Bifur only shook his head, pushing a cup of tea into Bofur’s hands and gesturing for him to drink.

So Bofur allowed himself to be cared for, though he would have liked nothing better than to be left alone. His unhappiness had become a nearly physical presence in his gut, and he had the suspicion that every moment he remained in another’s company, he made them more miserable as well.

After another long silence, Bifur gestured in a symbol Bofur recognized quite well: speak.

“About what?” he asked his cousin.

“ **Ahyrûn,”** said Bifur.

“You mean stories?”

Bifur nodded.

Bofur considered for a long, silent moment. At the moment, he felt as if he would rather do anything than tell a story, but if his loyal cousin wanted one, then he would be cruel and wrong to refuse.

So he plastered a smile on his face and affected the voice he used when telling stories – slightly hushed, dropped to a whispered, vital tone, the better to accommodate a sense of mystery. “Many years ago, there was once a dwarf who could speak to the mountains, and the mountains spoke to him. He had to but lay his hand on a cavern wall for the stone to relinquish its bounty, and gems and gold would pour into his hands, freely given.

Bifur made a low sound in the back of his throat, but said nothing.

“It was whispered that he was an incarnation of the mountains themselves, and that they had shaped him like they shaped all precious things – through many thousands of years of toil and effort. Indeed, no one seemed to remember where he had come from, so his legend spread. This was a man born of the mountain, as the mountain bore him.

“So in those days that their mountain-son lived, the dwarves grew prosperous, for there was no effort required when it came to their pursuit of gold and other fine things of stone. The mountain-son procured them all, without a need for mines, and without a need for death.

“It was a kind of music, one spoken in a language none on the earth understand today. No, it was a primal thing; more the words of crumbling stone, soaring peaks; the language of steady, eternal things that somehow this mortal could shape himself.

“But there was a rival kingdom that saw the prosperity of their enemies and despaired, for it seemed as long as the dwarves prospered, they were doomed to languish as second best. They were prideful men, and they longed to bring the mountain-son to his fate, for as long as the dwarves had this creature of legend at their command, they would be unable to take the mountain. So they devised a plan.

“They sent their most beautiful woman to the kingdom, and there she met the mountain-son and bewitched him with her words and her care. Or at least, what seemed like care to a man such as him, who had no knowledge of the ways of women or the world. She gained his love and his trust before speaking to him. ‘Son of the mountain,’ said she, ‘you claim to love me more than you love these stone halls, but as long as there are secrets between us, I will always know your words for untruths.’

“He was horrified that his lady-love should feel such a way. ‘Name what you must know, and I will offer it up gladly.’

“She said: ‘I fear for you, and though you are powerful, I know that you must possess a weakness. Share it with me, so that I may guard it as long as I live.’

“He was eager to please, and so he gave up his great secret without a thought. ‘As long as I possess a tongue to speak, I will be able to command the stone itself to move to my word. Should I lose my tongue, I will be as powerless as a mere mortal man.’

“The cunning lady was thrilled to have extracted his one, great weakness, but as the days passed she found herself unwilling to return to her kingdom and share the secret with her countrymen. Somehow, against her will, she had grown to love the mountain-son as he loved her.

“Though in the end, it mattered little. Her father captured her, and through great torture forced her to confess the weakness of the mountain-son before releasing her. They captured the mountain-son and cut out his tongue, and thus his power was lost. So full of grief was she that she threw herself from a great height and dashed her body on the rocks, unable to live with her betrayal.

“And the mountain-son was lost, as was the mountain itself. Now, there are no mountain-sons; only pretenders who pound away into unwilling stone, desperate to find the treasures within, often made to pay with their lives. For the mountains would never forgive their son of his foolishness, or the woman for her trickery, or the people for their deafness.”

Bofur let out a shaky breath as he finished the tale, and he realized as he’d spoke that for a brief moment he’d forgotten everything that happened to him that day, until only the story and the words occupied his mind. He realized that Bifur must have known this about him, and the realization was so acutely tender that he struggled to speak.

“Thank you,” he said finally, his voice hoarse.

Bifur said nothing, instead only resting his hand on his cousin’s shoulder, and there they remained until morning.

-

The mine reopened the day after the accident. Bombur muttered that the foremen were vultures and wouldn’t rest until all their workers were dead at the bottom of a cavern, but it was more or less what Bofur expected. The west chasm and its capillaries were closed off, as the rock there was still unstable, but there were other veins to mine, and thus work resumed.

Bofur did not see Rikke for many days after his disastrous lapse in control. He hadn’t expected he would ever see her again, of course, but the loss of her was deeply painful nonetheless. He would see those last moments before she fled every time he hovered just between the border of sleep and waking; how wonderful it had been touch her, how amazing it had been to feel her need mirror his own. He supposed that memory would have to sustain him for the rest of his life.

For her part, Riva staunchly maintained her routine of sending him off in the mornings, though he could tell as the days wore on she grew frustrated that neither her mother nor Bofur seemed at all interested in going back to the way things were.

It didn’t surprise him that Riva had figured out the situation; she seemed to have a preternatural sense of the world around her and the intrigues of adults; far better than he did anyway, and he was at least one-hundred fifteen years her senior.

One day, a week after the cave-in, she ceased her vague appeals and came right out with what had been bothering her. “Why don’t you and Mama talk anymore?”

He adjusted his mattock against his shoulder, uncomfortable. “I imagine you know already,” he said evasively. “As nothing gets past you.”

“I’d prefer that one of you admit it,” Riva said sourly. “Instead of dancing around the truth like cowards.”

“Perhaps it’s that we feel the truth isn’t appropriate for someone of your age,” Bofur said. “Or your attachment to the situation.”

“That’s a cheap answer.”

“Maybe it is,” said Bofur wearily. “A week ago, I was drunk and I did something inappropriate, something I should not have done.”

“You kissed her,” Riva said bluntly.

 He craned around to look at her, arching a brow. “If you knew, why ask me?”

“Because I’m tired of the way you’re handling this,” Riva said with ferocity that belied her age. “As if you’re constantly afraid of stepping on each other’s toes. It’s more tiresome than anything I’ve known before.”

“Even boredom?” he teased.

“Don’t make light of me,” she said. “You kissed her. Did she hit you? Draw her blade on you?”

“No. Why?”

“Because if you had really done something that she felt was inappropriate, she probably would have struck you or drawn her knife and put it to your throat.”

He was agog. “Is this a common occurrence, then?” he asked in a stunned hush.

“She works at a tavern owned by a man and not a dwarf, with clientele from many dangerous places,” Riva said wearily. “Of course it’s common.”

He did not pretend that this thought didn’t upset him. “That’s horrific,” he said.

“So you didn’t do something she didn’t want. She’s been completely over the moon about you – as much as she’s over the moon about anything – and I know you haven’t said anything yourself, but I can just tell by looking at you that it’s exactly for the same for you. And you’ll have to forgive me for being impatient, but there’s _only so much I can do before I start to get annoyed!”_ she said in a furious rush.

“So much you can do, eh?” he asked her, craning down.

“You both care for each other, and yet you insist on this irritating, principled stand, and I won’t tolerate it! I don’t see why you shouldn’t drop what you’re doing, go see my mother right now, and tell her everything!”

“It’s not that simple,” said Bofur wearily.

“It is!”  Riva insisted, grinding her heel into the dust. “It could be.”

“Riva . . .”

“Don’t ‘Riva’ me in that tone,” she snapped fiercely. “Like I’m a child, and I couldn’t possibly understand. I understand perfectly well! It could be that simple if there weren’t stupid laws set by people who’ve been dead for hundreds of years, because then Mama could smith and you wouldn’t have to work in the mines, and everyone could just be free to do what they loved! They’d – they’d be free to be with who they loved.”

“Why does this matter so much to you?” he asked her, comprehension dawning.

“I – I told you,” she managed, stricken. “Mama is too stupid to do what she wants to.”

“Don’t speak of your mother that way,” Bofur reprimanded gently. “I think your reasons are not so selfless, Riva.”

“Maybe they aren’t,” she challenged him. “And you’re only just now figuring this out, too! You really are a fool.”

“I’ve always said that I am,” he said fairly. “I’ve never claimed to go about changing things for the sake of selfishness.”

“Selfishness?” Riva whispered, her eyes glittering with furious malice. “You make noises like you care about the rules of the world, but truthfully you’re afraid. You laugh and tell stories because you fear anyone looking at you too closely, afraid that they’ll see you for what you are! You’re nothing more than a fool and a coward!”

He froze midstride, too stunned to properly process her fury and the reason for it. Her eyes swam with furious tears, and her hands were balled into shaking fists at her side, nails digging into the tender flesh of her palm. She seemed possessed by equal parts hurt and shame, suspended by misery that she had said such a thing, and that she also believed it to be true. Without waiting for him to say another word, she spun on her heel and tore off in the opposite direction, disappearing around a corner faster than he thought possible.

And he realized, in that stark, shameful moment, that he had proved to be a bitter disappointment to her. To a girl who only knew her father through the hard things Rikke said about him, perhaps she had seen Bofur as a salve to that emptiness. And in the same way, he had failed her.

He resumed his lonely trek to the mine, joining his surviving fellows and donning the metal crown that bore its lit candle. They were in for a longer trek to the site than usual, but he wouldn’t have known time and distance for what they were today. Riva’s accusation echoed through his thoughts, mingling with everything that had happened in this last disastrous week.

He should have known not to wallow in self-pity or misery, for the moment one believes things can’t possibly get any worse is the moment when they do just that.

There was a high scream that cut through the echoing tunnels just as Bofur slid into his harness, and he felt a cold chill erupt on the back of his neck. He knew what had happened then, through there had only been a scream, and now there was only the sick dread in him that seemed to suck the air out of the tunnels. He and his fellows slid out of their harnesses and took to searching the tunnels, and he found that they moved too slowly, too ponderously; he was possessed by panic, and thus impossibly fast.

Nothing could have prepared himself for what he found. At the lip of one of the crumbling west chasms were eight little trenches of upturned dirt, as if small hands had raked it desperately to gain purchase before plunging into the darkness. When he knelt into the dirt, he saw a fragment of a carving he’d made a month ago: a little white hammer, bearing the inscription ‘ _the strength of Aulë in me'._


	9. Chapter 9

“Trolls?” whispered Bilbo fearfully, drawing closer to Fíli and Kíli, careful to keep his head low.

“Aye,” said Fíli. “Look – firelight in the distance.”

Just then, something crashed through the forest, knocking aside the trees as it went, and Bilbo heard the frightened whinnying of the ponies. He spun for the source, and his jaw dropped as he took in the gigantic form of a troll, crushing the forest underfoot, one pony under each arm.

“Definitely trolls,” Kíli breathed uselessly.

“He’s got Myrtle and Mintie!” Bilbo hissed, indignant. “He’s – he’s going to eat them!”

“Come on,” Fíli hissed, jumping over the log they’d hid behind and moving through the underbrush as silently as he could manage – which was not that silently, come to think of it. Bilbo often muttered about the noisiness of his companions – loud, heavy feet, tromping everywhere like a herd of oliphants – and now it seemed as if even when the occasion called for it, his allies couldn’t even manage to slink through the wild on careful, quiet feet like he could.

Groaning inaudibly, Bilbo trailed after the brothers, and when he stumbled on a root the stew sloshed over his hands again. He resisted the urge to toss aside the bowls in a fit of frustrated temper.

And there they saw them – three mountain trolls in a little wooded alcove, with the ponies secured just behind the campfire they clustered around. One stirred the contents of a pot slung over the fire with seasoned interest, while the others griped and groused among themselves. Bilbo thought that they were hulking, fearful creatures, yet listening to them yammer diminished that fearfulness. Actually, they sounded rather stupid for trolls, and though Bilbo very much would have preferred to be anywhere else, he took small comfort in that.

“We can’t let them eat the ponies,” said Fíli.

“Well, round up the others,” Bilbo said as if this were obvious. “You’ll rout them and we’ll be on our way before we know it.”

“We can’t tell Thorin we . . . we lost the ponies,” Kíli hissed, utterly miserable. “You could get them!”

“ _Me?”_ gasped Bilbo.

“Aye! You’re small and quiet; they’ll never hear you coming, and by the time you free the ponies it’ll be too late for them to do anything about it,” Fíli said, cottoning on.

“I – I can’t do that!” Bilbo hissed, outraged.

“Sure you can! We’ll be right behind you the whole time,” said Kíli, giving Bilbo a hopeful push.

“Just hoot once like a barn own and twice like a brown owl if you need help,” said Fíli. “And we’ll be right there.”

Bilbo took a few steps forward, unshielded as it were by the trees and low brush, but when he turned around he saw that the brothers had gone. Steeling himself (though honestly he would have liked nothing more than to wash his hands of this whole business and march back to the Shire), he advanced on the troll camp.

They were just as he’d seen before; hulking and brutish, and stupid besides. One sneezed into the cauldron, much to the chagrin of the others, and yet despite their thick-headedness, Bilbo found that he feared them the same. They were huge – larger than any natural thing of the Shire. One wrong move and any of them could crush him in their fist like a bug.

He focused on the pen behind them, full of panicking ponies. He ignored the trolls’ obnoxious conversation, the better to keep his wits about him. For otherwise he knew he’d be struck dumb and still by their inane rambling, and he knew better. The blood of the Took’s surged in his veins at that moment – the part of him that longed for adventure and possessed no small amount of pride. The Company found him useless? He would prove them wrong.

\--

Bofur would remember those dawning moments of horror for the rest of his life. He would see the finger-tracks in the dirt, the little carved hammer glinting in the darkness like a single pearl embedded in muck. He dropped to his knees and peered over the lip of the cavern, though he knew it was in vain – this was one of the shallower caverns in the western chasm, but it was still deep enough to extend beyond his sight, the swallowing darkness below seeming to mock him.

It was too raw to acknowledge the possibility that loomed – the likelihood of a little broken body lying at the bottom of the mine, where less than an hour ago she’d been yelling at him and stamping her foot into the dust, her bright eyes sparkling with tears. It was too horrific, so Bofur chose not to acknowledge it as a possibility. In the face of this visceral horror, he became oddly logical and detached, for otherwise he knew he’d scream.

“Another child,” the foreman muttered, running his hands through his hair, for they’d heard the scream – far too high for an adult. While it was certainly more uncommon for a child to die in the mine than a miner, it still was something that happened every now and then, when they would sneak past the guard and play in the abandoned tunnels while the miners worked in the active chasms.

“I know who it was,” Bofur said as if from a great distance. He held up the broken toy between two fingers, clinically, as a surgeon might hold up a fragment of bone.

The foreman pinched his brow. “Inform the kin,” he said. “The rest of you lot; get back to the east –“

“I hope you’re not thinking of leaving a child down there without sending someone to look for her,” Bofur said, and though his voice was detached, there was a hint of steel running through it; a dare to challenge him, to deny him.

The foreman was already shaking his head. “There’s no way a little child could have survived that fall,” he said, gesturing harshly. “It’s impossible.”

“Have you forgotten who you’re speaking to?” Bofur said, drawing close and stretching to his full height, a head taller than the foreman. “Have you forgotten what happened to me?”

The foreman looked as if he dearly would have liked to argue. “This is different,” he said. “These caverns are unstable –“

“All the more reason for us to _make haste,”_ said Bofur between clenched teeth. “Someone get her mother – Rikke, she works at the Crooked Hammer – and the rest of you find me a harness.”

“I can’t condone this,” said the foreman, taking a step forward, so that they were only inches apart. “This section of the mine is still unstable – Mahal above, there was a cave in, and you want to throw yourself down the hole on the slim chance that the child is still alive. I won’t –“

“You saw fit to bring us back to work the day after twenty of our fellows were killed in that cave in,” said Bofur, and now there was no denying the bite of anger in his voice. “You had no concern of the danger then. But now you’re unwilling to spare any time searching for a child, under the threat of the same danger. Are you aware that is reprehensible?”

The foreman was too shocked to reply properly; he was a man accustomed to having his way when he decided he wanted something, and Bofur wondered quickly if anyone had ever challenged him in such a way before. Finally, he took a step back and jerked his head in capitulation. “Fine,” he said, his voice tight. “I’m not responsible if you get your head bashed in down there.”

“Truly, you are finest foreman I’ve ever known,” Bofur said, and he could not control the bitter sarcasm that trembled in the words.

\--

_Bofur is young, and the callouses on his hands are not as thick yet. He is still growing accustomed to bearing the weight of a mattock into the stone, and iglishmêk is odd and uncomfortable in his hands._

_But mining is decent work, and he’s glad for the pay. He appreciates the camaraderie between his fellow miners – the songs they sing every night after shift, arm in arm, swaying in a dark tavern, calling for another tune  and more ale. He knows that his father died in the mines, when a ton of rock collapsed on his head, but he’s too young to consider the possibility of such a thing happening to himself._

_In short, he’s possessed with all the swaggering confidence and stupidity of youth._

_He works alongside his elder cousin, Bifur, who he rather looks up to. He believes his cousin to be a perfect example of all that is good and admirable in a person, and a dwarf especially. Bifur is warm and passionate, often of good humor, and generous of spirit. His songs are the most requested wherever they go, but Bifur is not boastful or proud, and he often drafts Bofur to sing harmonies and play the accompaniment, for he prefers to share whatever attention he garners through his skill and affect._

_He knows Bifur has given up much to act as the head of their little broken family, and he tries to make things easier on his cousin when he can. But he is still young and stupid, and there are some nights where he doesn’t come home at all, entwined drunkly with some woman or another and trudging to the mine in yesterday’s clothes, with red eyes and a dopey grin on his face._

_He is young and stupid. He thinks that he’ll always be young._

_\--_

It took an hour to move the appropriate equipment to the chasm where Riva had fallen, and in that time Bofur was possessed by a sickening mix of feeling that churned in his gut, making it difficult to think or process anything in a rational, thoughtful manner. There was a greater capacity to panic when he remained still, so he took to pacing over the lip of the chasm, peering down into the blackness every few seconds, as if hoping this time he’d see her face looking  up at him.

As he was shrugging into his harness, he heard a strident voice echoing through the tunnels, and he thought his heart would break at the sound of it. He couldn’t make out the words, for there was still too much distance between them, but he knew fully well the shape of that conversation, and that it was likely a dagger would have left its sheath by now, leveled into the guard’s face in front of blade-like eyes.

He had underestimated Rikke’s ferocity and her will to survive, the will to protect what belonged to her. If he was unable to bring her daughter out of the chasm alive, he wouldn’t defend himself when she came for him. He would deserve that fate. In another time, he might have thought such a string of events would have made a good story; however, at the moment it had taken the horrifying appearance of realism.

“Send me down,” Bofur said, swallowing his fear, clenching his hands into solid fists so that no one would see that they trembled.

“Aye,” said the foreman. “Give us one long whistle blast when you want us to stop lowering, if . . . if you find anything. One short for dead, two short for alive. All right?”

Bofur said nothing, but he gave them a curt nod, jamming a lit candle in the metal crown he wore, the rough, rusted iron scraping at the raw skin of his forehead. He was preternaturally aware of the frantic beating of his heart, and the way the mine below him seemed to loom, the swallowing darkness beckoning obscenely, tauntingly. Here was a force that triumphed, it seemed to say. Here was something that would not relinquish its hard won spoils so easily. To snatch something from the jaws of death required sacrifice, and Bofur did not know what that  answering price would be, only that he would pay it gladly.

He slid off the lip of the chasm and into the darkness, offering an incoherent prayer as he went. The descent was slow, and his line of vision was so frustratingly insufficient that he heard a low growl come from between his clenched teeth. The gloves he wore were nearly soaked through with sweat, and he felt as if his heart would burst out of his chest with unimaginable violence.

He _hated_ the mines, and the darkness; the way he could barely see an armspan in front of him. Every day was the same – the sick burning at the back of his throat, his oddly palpitating heart – and if he’d been in control of his own fate, he’d have never come back here. He was a coward, through and through.

But he knew that there was a little girl at the bottom of the mine, possibly alive and hurt. No – definitely alive. He wasn’t going to consider alternatives to that until he was forced to.

He thought he heard a muffled sound, just at the edge of hearing, and in his desperate hope he believed it to be the sob of a child.

\--

_It is a day like any other, the day he falls. He follows his cousin to the mine, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and he doesn’t protest when they order him to be at the bottom of the chain today, the first to go over the edge, the one who will descend furthest into the darkness._

_He’s usually at the bottom because he’s the youngest and has the best eyesight and hearing. He has not yet suffered decades of shrill whistles blasting in his ears, and the deafening crack-thud the stone makes as it’s sundered and tossed away for its more precious bounty._

_It’s not easy work, but it suffices. He’s young and strong, and he’s possessed with more energy than he knows what to do with, so this suits him fine._

_But he’s not focusing on his work, or on the world around him. Instead, he’s thinking about a pretty girl he’d met the day before, and a half-dozen unrelated fragments of a story he wants to blend and turn into something coherent.  He’s thinking about his younger brother and hoping he’s gotten enough to eat lately._

_He’s not paying attention when the cord snaps, and the world drops out from under him._

_\--_

Bofur was deep enough in the chasm that he could no longer hear the voices of miners above him; in fact, he couldn’t hear anything aside from his own ragged breathing, each shuddering inhale and trembling exhale as deafening as a thousand mattocks slamming into rock.  They bore him down, slowly enough that he had time to search his surroundings. But to his horrified dismay, there was little to see.

Every now and then he’d pass a small outcropping of rock – sloped or terraced – and though the dirt would be upturned, there was no sign of Riva otherwise.

It was a long descent, made all the worse by his panic. For there was nothing below him but seemingly impenetrable darkness, and the possibility that his gravest fears would be confirmed. Though as much as he hated the caverns and the mines, he would not stop until he’d found Riva.

He heard the muffled sound again, echoing softly, almost too quietly to be detected. Above him, he could hear the unstable rock shifting, groaning in a way that sent another jolt of panic coursing through him. He remembered the foreman’s warnings, which he had thought cowardly standing on solid ground. Now, they took the shape and feel of prophecy.

No, he didn’t care. He strained to see into the darkness, looking for more outcroppings of rock, anything that could have caught her fall and saved her before she’d plummeted to the very bottom. Though as he passed each one, what little hope he had faded, until it had nearly gone.

There was a cruel voice that whispered to him the deeper into the darkness he went, and it used the truth to wound him. This was his fault. If he’d never met Rikke and Riva, she would not have had a reason to go into the mines. If he’d kept careful control over himself, Rikke wouldn’t have fled, which wouldn’t have upset Riva, which wouldn’t have driven her to this madness. He entertained a thousand similar threads, all of which brought the responsibility back to him.

The thought of bringing such suffering to Rikke was more acutely painful than he knew how to bear. The thought of causing the death of such a bright child was monstrous. _He_ was monstrous. It was as if the deeper into the hole he went, the louder his fear and guilt became, until he was alone – dangling like a worm on a hook, moments away from being devoured.

He was far enough down that the light at the lip of the cavern was just a faint, bright spot above his head when he saw something out of the corner of his eye, and his heart leapt to his throat.

It was the crumpled form of a child.

\--

_He doesn’t remember the fall; at least, not in the way one usually remembers things. All he recalls are vague sensory impulses: the whistling of air rushing past his ears, a scream tearing out of his throat with fearsome violence, his thoughts a frenzied reel of panicked images;  he struggles to right himself, to gain purchase on something, anything –_

_Then he slams into the ground, and he remembers no more for a time._

_\--_

Bofur groped for the whistle hanging around his neck and gripped it between his teeth, waiting until he drew level with the outcropping before letting loose a blast that would have taken the head off the shoulders of anyone standing closer than ten feet. His own ears rang, but he didn’t care – indeed, he felt as if he could never care about anything other than the crumpled form of Riva, unmoving, bent oddly –

The miners above stopped his descent, and he scrabbled onto the outcropping, rushing to her side so quickly that he stumbled and had to catch himself against the rock face.

“Riva?” he whispered hoarsely. He reached one shaking hand to turn her over, unable to breathe or think or do anything but process the situation in odd, staccato bursts. Her arm hung at an sickening angle – likely dislocated shoulder, from grabbing one of the outcroppings on the way down, perhaps? -- and her fingernails were torn and bloody – from struggling to pull herself over the lip of the chasm, he guessed. There were bruises that had already begun to form, and yet she was horribly still and broken, and he felt his eyes burn.

“Come on, lass,” he whispered desperately, taking her small body into his arms. “Come on.”

And he would always remember that next moment, too – that instead of lying still and unresponsive, she whimpered in pain and curled into his chest.

\--

_He lies at the bottom of the mine for two days. Not that he knew them for two days, at the time. He’s told after they bring him up and over, back into the world of light and living._

_No – those two days are comprised of endless, eternal seconds that stretch on without hope of passing. They are spent in the total dark, drifting in and out of consciousness, later veering into delirium. They are spent in pain so fierce that he screams through a raw throat, clawing at his skin and writhing until he can no longer move._

_He’s broken some bones in his left arm and right leg. Later, when he’s found and those bones heal, he’ll always have a weaker grip in his left hand, and at times his leg will twinge with that phantom pain where the pieces of bone had knit together._

_First he believes they’re coming for him, for he’s making enough noise at the bottom of this hell  -- like an animal wounded by a hunter, screaming as it drags itself around only by the power of its agony._

_But he watches the darkness above him and that certainty fades. He realizes they believe him dead. He realizes he must be dead._

_\--_

“Bofur,” she whispered, and he saw tears track down her dirty face.

He wasn’t aware of the world or the darkness or his own crushing panic to be so deep in this mine – all he knew at that moment was relief so great that rubbed his burning eyes with the back of his hand. “Are you hurt?” he asked her.

She nodded, her face crumpling in pain. “Everything hurts.”

“It’s all right. I’m going to get you out of here,” he said in an odd, hearty voice. “Can you cover your ears?”

“I can’t move my arm,” she whimpered. “They’re going to cut it off, and I’ll never be able to do anything my whole life, and –“

“Shh,” he soothed her, smoothing her dirty hair off her forehead. He wedged the whistle between his teeth once again, but this time he put his hands over Riva’s ears, so that the two short staccato shrieks of the whistle would not hurt her.

“What’s that for?” she wondered dimly, and he was relieved that she was still enough of her old self to possess her characteristic curiosity.

“It’s so they know you’re alive,” he told her.

She nodded, shuddering as a dead chill drifted through the darkness. “I’m cold,” she whispered.

He shrugged out of his overcoat and overtunic, wrapping them snuggly around her little body, so as to brace her arm and give her at least a little warmth in this dark place. There was a faint echo of memory to it – he remembered something similar had been done for him, though when he’d been recovered from the darkness he was not fully conscious of the world around him, or even of the landscape of his own mind.

“That a little better?” he asked her as he helped her into the harness.

She nodded.

“Good. Now hold on to me, all right?”

Riva did not need to be told twice. She wiggled her good arm out of his overcoat and wrapped it around his chest, and as he pulled her closer to him and yanked three times on the rope bearing their weight to signal the miners above, he realized that she shook with sobs.

“You’re all right,” he said. “We’re going to get out of here.”

As if testing his words, the unstable mine creaked as the stone shifted, and he felt another surge of panic flood through his veins. Now that he’d found Riva, and that she was secure and alive in his arms, he cursed the miners above him for moving far too slowly, for hauling them up inch by glacial inch.

“I know,” Riva sobbed. “I’m so sorry.”

“Here, now; what’s all this?”

“I said you were a coward,” she hiccupped. “But you came for me. Even though you hate mines.”

“Well, I work in them, don’t I?” he asked, attempting to inject some levity in the admittedly dire situation. “As if I could have left you down here. Who would listen to my stories, then?”

“Everyone,” Riva wept. “Everyone thinks your stories are magical.”

“Not everyone,” he argued lightly, pulling her closer as the rope jostled and shifted their weight.

“Then only the important people.” She took a shaky, tremulous breath. “I mean it, though. You’re not a coward. I shouldn’t have said you were.”

“But I am, lass,” he disagreed.  “You were right to say I am.” He paused. “How is it you know I hate mines, anyway?  I’ve never said as much.”

“Whenever I ask you if you like what you’re doing, you shrug and say that it pays the bills. When adults say that, it means they would do anything else if they had a choice.”

He smiled, though above them he could hear the stone shifting, the voices of his fellow miners calling out to one another as they struggled to pull them faster. “You’re very clever.”

“It’s easy to appear clever when everyone else is so stupid,” she said with a twinge of bitterness altogether strange coming from a child’s lips.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Why do you hate the mines?”

He decided now was as good a time as ever to admit it. She seemed to calm the more he spoke, and if he was being quite honest with himself, speaking to her had a similar effect. He tightened his grip on the rope, watching their impossibly slow progress. “Many years ago, I fell. Like you did.”

“You tripped and --?”

“Maybe not like you,” he amended. “I was at the bottom of a line and my rope snapped. I fell, broke some bones. I was down there for two days before anyone found me.”

“Why did it take them so long?” she asked, blinking up at him with wide, tear-filled eyes.

“They thought I was dead,” Bofur shrugged. “It happens all the time, and depending on the accident, it’s inefficient to make recovery efforts.”

“Inefficient,” Riva murmured. “Even more inefficient to stop an entire day of work for a child.”

“Efficiency is not the only thing that matters,” Bofur told her. “In fact, when weighed against a life, I’d say it hardly matters at all.”

Riva was quiet for a moment. “Who found you?”

“Bifur did,” said Bofur. “Before the orc, back when he was – when he was his old self, I suppose.”

“He saved you,” Riva echoed. “Like you saved me.”

-

_And it’s true – Bifur was the one to find him. He brought up his younger cousin’s broken body over the lip of the chasm, cradling him and whispering in a voice that Bofur hasn’t heard in years – a calm, low voice that sounded so much like music.. After Bofur healed, Bifur took on another shift at the mine so as to keep his terrified young cousin from facing the darkness that had nearly swallowed him whole._

_And so things remained until the orc, and the axe, and the days beyond, where there was no more music – only the falsely optimistic ramblings of a coward and a fool, who struggled to make up the silence that had come over his beloved cousin._

_-_

“Well, like I said; I was hardly going to leave you down here,” Bofur said. “I don’t think I’d have been long for this world if I did, not if you mother had anything to say about it.”

“She won’t blame you,” Riva told him with utter surety. “And if she does, I’ll run away.”

“Riva . . .”

She buried her face into his chest. “I’ll never say anything bad again. And I’ll never do anything bad again. No more tricks this time, I mean it.”

“Are you telling me this was one of your tricks?” he asked her, unable to keep the dismay out of his voice.

“I – yes,” she admitted, almost too quietly to be heard.

“You thought you’d throw yourself down a chasm and –“

“No! I didn’t mean to fall. I just meant to get lost, and have you find me. I thought Mama wouldn’t be able to resist you then.”

He would have buried his face in his palm if he’d had a free hand to do so. “Mahal above, Riva . . .”

“I know. I deserve to be punished for the rest of my life,” she whispered. “I deserved to die down there, because then I wouldn’t cause you or Mama any more grief. And – and –“

“Enough of that talk, now. Do you know how glad she’ll be to see you alive?” He pulled her closer, swallowing the thickness in his throat. “Do you know how glad I am for that? More than I can say, and I can say a lot.”

Riva promptly burst into tears once again, and though he was exhausted and harrowed by fear that went beyond his considerable abilities to express, he took comfort in the sold feel of her – hurt, but blessedly alive. When the miners pulled them over the lip of the chasm, he was the last on his feet, and when she cried for Bofur, he was there to take her in his arms again – overcoat and tunics and all -- bearing her from their mutual place of darkness and back into the light.

 

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

In Bilbo’s opinion, his first act of heroism could have gone better.

It had taken him hardly any time at all to be caught by the trolls, and had the dwarves not intervened, he would have been killed and cooked and who knows what other endlessly foul thing, and that would have been the unceremonious end to Bilbo Baggins of Bag End. As it was, the entire Company had come crashing through the woods and attempted to relieve him of this particularly unpleasant fate, though it had been to little avail, for the trolls had then proceeded to outsmart them, bag them, and string them up over their cookfire, determined to have their dinner, one way or another.

Really, the only things that had saved them were Gandalf and the sunrise. Bilbo had desperately been attempting to distract the trolls from roasting his companions alive – who, by the way, had fought him in this endeavor every step of the way – when he’d caught a glimpse of the wizard, and he felt as if he could breathe again.

So all in all, not a fine start.

Though, Bilbo shouldn’t have been surprised that Bofur found the entire thing amusing. He caught sight of the dwarf smirking as he shrugged back into his tunic, tying the laces with practiced fingers. “What are you glowering about?” he asked Bilbo in a bright tone.

“Are you not at all bothered by the fact that you were nearly cooked and eaten?”

“If I was, would stewing about it help matters at all?” Bofur said reasonably. “Ha! ‘Stewing’!”

“No,” Bilbo said in a flat voice, brushing past the irritating pun. “I refuse to believe you are this even-keeled. It’s literally impossible.”

“It isn’t impossible,” Bofur said as he buckled his belt with a decisive air. “It wouldn’t even be literally impossible, as I’m fairly sure there are other even-keeled blighters like myself mucking about the world.” He peered closer, his gaze speculative. “Why are you so upset?”

“Because we were nearly eaten!” Bilbo hissed, gesturing emphatically. “Cooked over a spit, skinned alive, roasted, grilled, and what have you!”

“We wouldn’t have been skinned without your suggestion,” Bofur pointed out.

“I was attempting to play for time,” Bilbo huffed. “None of the rest of you thought of that.”

“Aye, that’s fair. Though to be equally fair, I was strung up over a fire, just mere moments away from my fate, and you were still comfortably on the ground.”

“Ah ha!” Bilbo spun, jamming an accusing finger into Bofur’s chest. “You’re not as nonchalant as you pretend!”

“Do you want me to admit that at the time, I was afraid and angry and upset?” Bofur asked him. “Aye, I was. You’d be a fool if you weren’t; more a fool than I. But now the danger has passed, and there’s little reason to worry it to the bone.”

“Perhaps you should,” Bilbo muttered. “It might mean avoiding situations like this in the future.”

“Ah, but there’s a difference between consideration and anxiety, don’t you know?” Bofur said, ingratiatingly smug. “Come on, Mr. Bilbo. We’ve got a long road ahead of us, and you make it longer by wallowing.”

“You would be the expert on that, I imagine,” Bilbo groused, but he allowed the subject to drop.  He didn’t like to admit it, but Bofur had a point (no matter how small it was), and it wouldn’t do to drag his feet and grouse the entire way – though no one could have possibly blamed him if he did, with the trolls and numerous other foul things in the night, and thirteen wayward, well-meaning yet equally irritating dwarves to contend with.

He was distracted from his silent grousing by Gandalf conversing with Thorin in a low, speculative voice. The latter frowned deeply before turning to an opening in the rock face that Gandalf indicated with one authoritative finger. At Bilbo’s side, Bofur let out a huff of surprise.

“Ah,” he said under his breath.

“What?”

“That’ll be the hoard,” he said, shrugging into his overtunic and setting out to follow, Bilbo trailing behind.

Bilbo wouldn’t deny that the troll hoards had been a source of fascination for his younger self. Indeed, he drove his mother to distraction attempting to ply fantastical tales of the riches found within out of her– the artifacts that those great, dangerous brutes would spirit away and keep in their caves, merely for the pleasure of having them.

He was not disappointed. Save for the smell, which was an unpleasant mix of mold, dust, and corpse-rot, he’d never seen such an accumulation of finery anywhere, let alone in a place like this dank and fetid hole. He saw Gandalf and Thorin examine a stockpile of weaponry, but Bofur’s eye was drawn to a pile of treasure heaped in the center of the cave, hundreds of gold pieces strewn away as if it were little better than trash.

Bilbo might have judged the appreciative shine to his friend’s eyes as selfish desire had he not known him better. “Seems a shame to leave it lying around,” Bofur said, scuffing a few loose pieces with the toe of his boot.

To Bilbo’s surprise, Gloin and Nori were in agreement, and with that they began hastily shoving gold and loose bits of treasure into a chest and digging a hole in the in the cave itself, spraying Bilbo’s feet with dirt as they went.

“We’re making a long-term deposit,” Gloin said tersely, arranging the chest in the hole they’d made with an expression that dared Bilbo to say a word about it. He wouldn’t; not even if he’d been paid hard money to go toe to toe with the warrior. He rather liked being in possession of all his limbs.

He could bear the stench of the hoard no longer; with a sigh, he climbed out of the cave and back into the open, inhaling a fresh breath of air with substantial relief. Riches were all find and good, he supposed, but he wanted for little, and fresh air was a good deal more pleasing than any amount of smelly troll gold.

“You buggered out quick enough,” Bofur said as he exited the cavern, looking quite pleased with himself.

“I found the stink intolerable,” Bilbo said with great dignity.

“Was it? Suppose I’ve lost the ability to tell,” Bofur shrugged.

“Considering the state of your hygiene, I’m not surprised.”

Bofur smirked. “Seems like you’re going to be in a mood for a while yet. I’ll leave you to it.”

Bilbo had the grace to feel guilty for snapping. It wasn’t true (well, mostly wasn’t true, anyway) and he’d been wrong to turn his foul mood outward, with only the intent to wound. Not that Bofur would take it to heart, for most days it seemed as if nothing really bothered him.

“Bofur,” said Bilbo, unable to keep the grudging note from his voice. “I’m sorry.”

“Ah, don’t trouble yourself over it,” Bofur said easily. “Today’s been a challenge.”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“Aye,” Bofur agreed. “Likely won’t be the worst to come, either.”

Bilbo decided he wasn’t going to think about that, though Bofur seemed keen enough to remind him every few hours. Instead, he struggled for another subject, one that had occurred to him in the fetid troll hoard. “Have you a purpose for that long-term deposit, then?” he asked in what he hoped was an innocent tone.

“Sure,” Bofur laughed. “Someday I hope to spend it.”

Bilbo was not amused. “On what?”

“Oh, all manner of foolish things,” Bofur said. “Trinkets, odds and ends. An estate with a fountain of ale in the courtyard.” He tapped his chin. “I quite like the sound of that.”

“What nonsense,” Bilbo muttered.

“Aye, I like the sound of nonsense too.”

Bilbo supposed it might have been too much to hope for that Bofur would have remembered how to be open and forthcoming, as he had only the night before. Though as Bilbo considered, he realized perhaps he already knew the reason for this; that perhaps this excursion down a smelly hoard was merely another attempt to prove worthy, when no attempt was actually needed.

Not for the first time, Bilbo looked at his friend – now stowing the rest of his belongings on his pony with a distant expression – and felt quite sad.

\--

The day passed as dreams do – with odd skipping lurches and moments of nearly frozen clarity, as if they’d been drawn and not acted out by reality. Bofur clearly remembered the sight of Rikke just outside of the mine with her hands clenched at her sides like clubs, and the way only her eyes betrayed any feeling when they landed on her wounded daughter, stirring feebly in his arms.

Without speaking, Rikke held out her arms and cradled her child against her, as she’d done for all the girl’s life. And whatever fear Riva had felt over her mother’s wrath seemed to dissolve; in that instant, she was child possessed with shame and relief that went beyond her ability to express in a way other than tears.

Before Rikke turned away, however, she met his gaze for one brief second – all too brief. He’d missed her and worried for her and – in the last few hours especially – grieved over his disastrous influence over her life. And it was unfortunate to realize at this moment that he was essentially selfish, at the core of his being; that whatever relief he felt that Riva was alive was matched pound for pound by the relief he felt by simply looking into the eyes of her mother.

Perhaps he looked too long because of the suspicion that he’d never get a chance to again. The moment was over before he could properly mark it; Rikke turned and bore her daughter away, through the commons and around the corner in barely the span of a heartbeat.

It was only after he’d re-entered the mine and slipped into his harness and scaffold that he realized he’d forgotten to take his outer tunic and coat back.

So the day marched on, almost as every other if not for the events of the morning. He bore the mutterings of his foreman, though in reality they’d only lost about an hour in the rescue, for the shaft Riva had fallen down was not deep, and she hadn’t fallen too far into it besides. But to hear the foreman tell it, they’d wasted the entire day searching for a _daughter of a barmaid,_ which in his estimation was an unforgivable waste of time. Never mind that only about ten miners had taken any time out of their schedule to aid his descent. Never mind that the rest had resumed work as if nothing had happened.

While not freezing, the air of the mine was usually cold and damp and by the end of his shift Bofur was exhausted, attempting to blink away an insistent headache that pressed between his eyes. He worried without active, complete thoughts – Riva and her injuries, Rikke and her sorrow, the vague paranoid suspicion that he would never see either of them again.

So he was surprised to see Rikke waiting for him just outside the entrance to the mine with his coat and tunic draped in her arms, her back straight and proud. Only her expression betrayed any softness as he took him in – in all his unkempt, disheveled glory.

She cleared her throat, holding out his coat as if an offering of peace. It shamed him to realize how lovely he found the sight of his clothes in her hands. “I – I hadn’t realized I’d taken them until after you’d . . . well, here,” she said, passing them into his hands. “I would have come sooner, but . . .”

“No, no,” he said quickly. “I understand. How is she?”

“With the healers,” Rikke said. “They assure me she will recover, but it’s . . . it’s no easy thing, to see your child hurt in such a way.”

“I can only imagine.”

“Yes, well,” she said, twisting her suddenly empty hands, as if to find them in a state again was uncomfortable. She watched her feet, pressing dusty patterns into the ground. “I owe you a debt I can never repay,” she said softly.

“You owe me nothing,” he said firmly. “Least of all any debt.”

“Denying a debt doesn’t erase it,” she said, looking up at him. “You have done something for me, and I will never be able properly show your my gratitude, or return the service as you deserve.”

“Then I’d say it’s a good thing you don’t need to, then, isn’t it?” Bofur said to her, uncomfortable.

Her expression became oddly speculative, as if she struggled to piece together something that he’d said, or if he’d posed to her something incongruous. “There’s nothing you want of me?” she prompted, her eyes narrowing. “Nothing at all?”

“Your forgiveness, if that,” he said, draping his coat over his arms. “Though I’d hardly hold saving Riva over your head to force you to give it if you hadn’t a mind to already.”

 The speculation in her eyes clouded over to frustration, and he recoiled. “I don’t understand you,” she finally said, her voice a trembling hush. “My husband would have taken the good turn and demanded reciprocation immediately. My father would have counted every favor and clutched the piling debts to his heart, delighting when the time came to call them. You only want forgiveness – for what, I can’t even imagine – and only if I had a mind to offer it anyway.”

“Aye, I’d say that’s a fair summary,” he said. “I’d want forgiveness for … making inappropriate advances.”

“You – you …” She stared up at him, as if attempting to find the stitching and seams that comprised him, hopeful that they would offer understanding. “I don’t understand you,” she said finally, the edges of her voice trembling in frustration.

“I’m sorry—“

“Yes, well. There’s nothing to forgive,” she said over him, turning away, coloring. “Had I felt you were being inappropriate, I would have pressed a dagger to your throat. Had you persisted, I would have taken something of yours that you would prefer not to lose.”

The situation was absurd and he was exhausted, so perhaps in hindsight he could be forgiven for grinning at this highly inappropriate time. “Riva said as much.”

“Of course she did,” said Rikke, not amused. “I should know better than to expect my daughter to keep her silence when it comes to you.”

“I wouldn’t dare say she’s too clever for you, but she’s far too clever for me,” Bofur said.

Rikke heaved a sigh. “But she is too clever for me. She’s too clever for her own good.”

“I’d say we can agree there.”

Rikke said nothing, picking at her thumbnail until he saw a flash of red beading at the skin there. “May I walk home with you?”

“I’d be delighted for your company,” he said automatically, adjusting his mattock against his shoulder.  “And your conversation.”

“My company is less than agreeable, and my conversation is as bitter as I often am,” she said as they set out in the direction of his home. “I would accuse you of odd taste if I wasn’t . . .  glad for it myself.”

“How little you seem to know yourself,” he said softly. If she heard what he’d said, she gave no sign.

Rikke veered away from this dangerous line of thought. “Tomorrow I think Riva would be glad to see you,” she said.

“Not tonight?”

“I’m afraid not,” she said. “I only left because the healers shooed me away, and I figured I might as well return your . . .  your clothing in the time they required. Tomorrow, though.” He thought he almost saw her smile. “Tomorrow I imagine she would be very happy to see you.”

“As would I.”

To his delight, her smile did not fade. “If she admired you before, it’s nothing compared to now,” she said, almost slyly.  “After they set the bones, she told me a story you told her as they brought you both out of the mine, out of the darkness.”

“Ah – of course she did,” Bofur muttered. “What was it you said about her being unable to keep her silence?”

“It’s not a fair feeling, is it?” Rikke asked him. “She told me how you fell into a mine yourself, as a younger man. And that you braved your fear to find her.”

“It’s hardly the deal she’s apparently making of it,” Bofur said, uncomfortable. “I go into the mines almost every day.”

“And I find it very interesting that you do,” said Rikke. “Considering you are quite fond of calling yourself a coward.”

“But I am,” he insisted lightly. “I’d rather sing a song than stick a nasty creature with a blade, and that’s assuming I wouldn’t cut my own hand off first.”

“Preferring peace doesn’t make you a coward, and preferring war does not make one brave,” Rikke argued.

“Doesn’t it?”

“No,” she said firmly. “My husband trained with blades from the time he was old enough to fit his hand around the hilt of a sword, and a more sniveling coward never existed. He wouldn’t have done what you did today, even if he didn’t fear the mines. And if he did, nothing could have persuaded him to take a single step inside. And I look at you insisting yourself to be a coward when you subject yourself to your greatest fear every day, even going so far to relive a deeply traumatic event to save my child.  He might have been better with a sword, but your heart is far stouter than his ever was.”

“You are deliberately trying to embarrass me,” he said, looking away.

“I hadn’t even thought it was possible to do so,” Rikke said. “Considering you’re so quick to do the same to others.”

“All the better; not many would think to turn it back to me.”

“And I begin to understand you better,” she said knowingly.

“Cowardly, wouldn’t you say?” he prompted, grinning.

She refused to be baited. “No, not cowardly. Interesting.”

“I suppose I should be thankful you find me interesting, at least.”

“Perhaps you should,” she said to him. “Though you know I’m not so easily distracted from the subject at hand.”

“What do you want me to say?” he asked her.

“Nothing, I suppose. I just find it interesting that you are more comfortable speaking of your greatly exaggerated negative qualities than your positive ones.”

He adjusted the mattock against his shoulder, which had begun to slip as they made their way through the commons. “That’s not true. I have a fine ear and I’m not afraid to say so. I’m skilled with stories – more so than anyone in the Blue Mountains, I’d wager.”

“That wasn’t what I was talking about and you know it,” she said sternly.

Bofur sighed, watching the merchants pack up their stalls with customary efficiency before rushing off in the direction of the taverns. “Once, there was a fool who was in love with the sound of his own voice.”

Rikke had learned enough about him to know that this was his preferred method of confession, and so she remained silent.

“Instead of creeping through life and hoping in vain that he’d never been noticed, he grew accustomed to speaking constantly, and of all manner of things, in order to distract. For he didn’t think so much of his ability to go unseen, and it was better to fill the empty air around him with empty words, in the hope that someone would take them for truth.

“So he cultivated an easy, foolish air, and after a time he’d grown convinced of his own lies. They were easier to wear than the truth, however, and so he continued as he had for years now. Lies are comfortable things, when you wear them well. Often they’re kinder than the truth, which can cut like a blade when in the wrong hands, or perhaps even in well-meaning ones.”

“It may be cruel,” Rikke cut in. “But truth is far preferable to lies.”

“The fool wouldn’t have agreed. At least not at first.”

“Wouldn’t he have found it better to look at the world as it is, and to see his character for what it was?”

“It would have been if he wasn’t a fool or a coward,” said Bofur easily. “Lies are the friends of fools and cowards. They fit easily when you’d rather look at the world as it could be, rather than what it is.

“When you put it that way, it’s almost understandable.”

“I’m glad you think so. The old cowardly fool met a fierce woman one day, who was staunchly devoted to all things solid and true, for all her life she’d bore the lies of other cowardly fools, and she’d grown tired of it. And in her habit of looking at the world unblinkingly, the fool who loved his voice and his lies was forced to confront his foolishness as he never had before, and at times the change made him nervous and uncomfortable. He’d forgotten the feel of truth, having given it up for what was easy.”

“Would he have preferred to lie to her?” Rikke asked him quietly.

He paused as they drew level with his home, and he found the familiarity of it jarring after the events of the day, the infinitely strange path that he had unwittingly started down. “That’s the thing; he wouldn’t have. All those easy, comfortable lies became fake and awkward, and so he was suspended in this strange place – slung between fearing the truth and disdaining his old habits. But . . . he wouldn’t have preferred those lies over her. Not in any way, or any time.” He took a breath. “Not if he was made to choose.”

“So what became of him?” Rikke asked, coloring.

“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “I haven’t decided yet, and she hasn’t either, I think.”

“His lies are unnecessary,” said Rikke finally. “But I would imagine that she found his stories lovely. And it would be tragic beyond telling if he gave those up as well.”

Before he could say anything, she drew closer and pressed one hand to his face. He thought for one thrilling, heart-stopping moment that she would kiss his lips, but instead she pressed her own lips to his cheek, just a moment too long to be friendly, just lightly enough to be unspeakably, unbearably tender. And he knew they were in the middle of the streets and his neighbors could likely see the entire show, but he found that he didn’t care at all -- that the only thing he properly noticed was her touch, and how such a small gesture had no business feeling so wonderful.

Finally, she pulled away. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, and in this way he knew the shape of her choice, and his own desire to meet it, to reciprocate it. This time, she did not run from him; instead, her pace was resolute, almost halting, and before she vanished behind the corner, she turned back one more time to meet his gaze.

She did not thank him again, or insist on his bravery. She did not demand clear-spoken truths, or force him to collect a debt he felt he had no claim to. She only kissed him, and promised to see him again. And he found it strange that he should have grown to love someone so quickly, so dearly, so irreversibly.

 


	11. Chapter 11

Bilbo had desperately hoped for their journey to resume its uneventful march, but instead he was possessed by the feeling that things would only get worse from here. This sense of foreboding was not improved by the sight of the small weapon Gandalf held in his hands, holding it out toward Bilbo as if it was some kind of peace offering.

“What is the meaning of this?” he asked, peering up at Gandalf from under furrowed brows. He had still not quite forgiven the wizard for abandoning them earlier.

“I would like for you to have this,” said Gandalf, in his imminently frustrating manner.

“I – I can’t take this,” Bilbo said recoiling.  “I’ve never used a sword in my life.”

“And I hope you never will have to,” said Gandalf. “However, in these strange times, is always good to be prepared.”

Bilbo accepted the proffered blade with some hesitation, though he noted that the make was fine and the balance far better than any of the blades he’d held in his lifetime (however admittedly few they were). “I’m as likely to stick myself like a suckling pig as I am to slay any foul attacking creature,” he said, frowning.

“You underestimate yourself, Bilbo Baggins,” said Gandalf, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Perhaps it is you who overestimates me,” Bilbo argued. It was as if the last weeks of doubt and dismay had increased in his heart, and he could no longer swallow their bitter taste. “I don’t think I can do this, Gandalf,” he admitted quietly, fingers curling on the hilt of the blade. “I – I’m not brave or skilled. If you wouldn’t have come, we would have been killed and eaten so easily, and – and I know it will be the same all throughout. I’m not meant for this life, or these times . . . for goodness’ sake, I’ve never killed so much as a –“

“My dear Bilbo,” said Gandalf. “Presenting you with a blade is not the same as presenting you with an obligation to use it, so cease your worry. I rather find that it takes far more courage to spare a life than it does to end one, and perhaps you’ll find a similar truth on this journey.”

Bilbo was not impressed, as Gandalf was often given to odd rhapsodizing that seemed to have no bearing on the moment at hand, or indeed any unknown moments of the future, for that matter. But before he could reply, he heard Thorin call out unintelligibly, and at the sound of his voice the Company sprang to action, crashing through the brush toward the source of the disturbance.

“Gandalf, what –“

“Quickly,” said Gandalf, hurrying after the Company, drawing his own sword. “Stay close to me.”

 Bilbo did not need to be told twice. Stumbling over a large root in the underbrush, he sped after Gandalf with all possible haste, clutching his sheathed sword to his chest and making a fair attempt to keep his feet. An errant thought flitted through his mind as he watched the wizard cross the distance in one pace that it took him three to match: how much easier would this adventuring business be if Bilbo was one of the big folk?

In the end, their swift response was for nothing, for it was no orc or goblin or troll that crashed through the brush, but instead another wizard – disheveled, frantic, clad almost solely in browns, so that if he froze Bilbo half-imagined that he would fade into the forest like a spirit. However, it seemed as if this wizard was incapable of stillness, for he flitted from place to place, an endless font of nervous energy.

“Radagast,” said Gandalf, raising one hand in greeting to his wayward comrade.

“You’re no orc,” said Radagast, and he seemed quite stunned by this development.

“Not last I checked, no,” Gandalf said, amused.

And with that, the two wizards strode away from the rest of the Company and ventured deeper in the wood, just out of earshot. Bilbo saw Thorin sheathe his sword with a scowl that seemed etched from stone – altogether appropriate in a dwarf, he imagined – and with that, the rest of the Company followed suit.

Bilbo had taken to watching the leader of their company when he was certain he wouldn’t be caught – just as he had watched the rest of his comrades in the beginning. While Bilbo’s fascination with the other dwarves had begun to wane, his interest in Thorin did not abate after a few evenings of careful study, a fact with which Bilbo was moderately uncomfortable. But in all his life, he’d never known a person like the wayward King under the Mountain, and passing scrutiny hardly did him justice.

“Lost you back there,” Bofur said, clapping Bilbo on the shoulder with a nearly offensive lack of concern, and Bilbo made a game attempt to keep from jumping in surprise, for the dwarf could manage to be fairly quiet when he wanted to be, unlike his kin.

“It’s good that you noticed eventually,” Bilbo muttered. “Suppose the disturbance had not been Gandalf’s comrade but a band of orcs. None of you would have noticed if I had been gutted and left behind until well after the danger had passed.”

“Is this a request, my dear Bilbo?” asked Bofur genially. “If it will ease your fear, I will keep a closer eye on you, and for as long as you wanted, I won’t leave your side.”

“That isn’t necessary,” Bilbo said, glancing at Thorin and Dwalin as they spoke amongst themselves, casting distrustful glares at the pair of wizards just out of earshot, no more than looming silhouettes in the forest.

“Isn’t it?” Bofur said, following Bilbo’s gaze to its subject. “Perhaps you have a mind to keep under the eye of a more skilled warrior, then?”

Bilbo started. “W-what? No, of course not.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you did,” said Bofur, shrugging before letting his mattock thud to the ground. “Should something fanged and fierce come upon us, they’d be more likely to make final work of it that I.”

Bilbo took one final look at Thorin before turning away. “He thinks me a burden. And I’m inclined to agree.”

“What kind of talk is that?” Bofur asked him. “Likely the trolls would have eaten us sooner had you not intervened.”

“Had I not been there to begin with, the trolls wouldn’t have had the chance to deprive you of your arms,” Bilbo pointed out. “Do you think that’s lost on the warriors? That they had to stop the charge to mind the bumbling hobbit?”

“You’re hardly bumbling,” Bofur said reassuringly. “A little . . . green, maybe, but –“

“But that’s what I’m saying,” Bilbo cut him off. “I have no business here.”

Bofur was silent for a moment, all good humor forgotten. “I wasn’t aware that this upset you so deeply. I mean, you grouse enough for it, but I hadn’t realized . . .”

“That I wasn’t exaggerating?” Bilbo asked him pointedly. “I’m not like you, Bofur. I’m no tale teller.”

“You could be,” Bofur said, and there was an odd kind of resonance to his voice, an implacable emotion perhaps. “Anyone could be.”

\--

Bofur had hardly crossed the threshold of his home when he nearly tripped over Bombur’s feet, coming face to face with his brother’s tight expression. He supposed it was too much to ask for the events of the day not to have spread like wildfire through a dry field, but it didn’t change that he might have enjoyed a few minutes to take a breath.

“I heard there was some trouble at the mine,” said Bombur, his brows pulled low over worried eyes.

“Not too much trouble, really,” Bofur said noncommittally, brushing past and ladling some stew into a bowl. “Nobody died, for once.”

“Aye, that’s what I heard,” Bombur said. “Some of the lads were saying you pulled a child out of the west chasm. The one that’s half caved in.”

Bofur shrugged, though Bombur’s tone made him somewhat uncomfortable. “That’s the short of it.”

“And you’re . . . fine, then?”

Ah – so that was the source of Bombur’s concern. Bofur swallowed the mad impulse to laugh – his fascination with Rikke had instilled in him an odd sense of guilt, where he felt less acquainted and more wary of convention than usual. “I’m fine,” Bofur said as easily as he could manage, and it surprised him that the deflection took the feel of truth.

“You’re sure?”

Bombur was right to question – his own fall down the shaft all those years ago had been deeply traumatic, and at the moment where he feared Riva to be dead, it had been like descending into the place of his own personal torment, buried as it was. Yet as he considered, there had been something cathartic about bearing a broken victim out of the darkness much like his beloved cousin Bifur had done for him – something that put his own experience in a different perspective.

“I am,” said Bofur, and he smiled as warmly as he ever had. “Truly.”

Bombur let the matter drop after that, though Bofur could tell his brother was not exactly convinced. But as the night wore on, Bofur found that the worries of his kin were especially vague, as if travelling to him from across a great distance. His thoughts spun faster than he was familiar, and thus sleep eluded him.

He remained awake well after Bombur and Bifur had fallen asleep, watching the dying flames in the hearth, the odd patterns of sparks that burst forth every few moments. He groped through his pockets, his fingers brushing the little broken hammer of Aylá that he’d rescued from the dirt only a few hours ago. Before, it had been sickening evidence of all that had happened, and all that he stood to lose. Now, it seemed to him to be only sad; a maiden-smith without her hammer.

With that, he set out to whittle a new Aylá, drawing the pose from memory, his hands moving quickly over the smooth wood. And he thought of her as he whittled; the strong line of her jaw juxtaposed with soft lips whose impression he could feel on his cheek still, a stern brow, a set of deep and wounded eyes, the possibility of a smile there – her countenance infused with all the pride and strength and hidden passion that he’d seen. And it was only after many hours had passed did he realize he’d carved Aylá the maiden-smith in Rikke’s likeness.

But now he felt no shame in his fascination, or with the work he had done. Truly, it was his finest effort to date, and it would have been obscenely wasteful to throw it into the fire merely by virtue of its resemblance. And what a resemblance it was; he had the odd feeling of looking at Rikke in miniature, down to the most subtle details: a hairline scar through her lip, the slight asymmetry of her eyes. He thought it was Rikke as she should have been, if life was fair and people were free to pursue their passions, for she bore the smith-hammer in an upswing, as if about to strike an anvil, and her expression was one of skill and surety. There was no sorrow in this fierce lady’s gaze. One might never have known she lived a life of loss by looking at her.

He considered the cause for her sorrow and the source of his own guilt; the conventions that had stood for hundreds of years, on which the foundation of society itself was built. And yet, as he looked down at the maiden-smith in his hands, he found that he cared little for anything that had caused her to suffer, and had denied her a chance to live her passion for the sake of propriety. Who could hope to own a woman like her? Who would dare?

In that manner, he was decided. He’d never been given to agonized rumination, and he supposed he wasn’t about to start now. Yet this did not seem like an impulse – more an instinct. He’d learned to trust those.

With a breath, Bofur set to painting the figure, and this time his hands did not tremble when he etched the runes _‘the strength of_ _Aulë in me’_ over the smooth surface of the hammer.

\--

The next day, Bofur resumed work as if nothing had changed, which in of itself took the impression of futility, for in truth, everything had changed. He carried out his shift at the mines with patience that belied his impulse, for if he’d had the freedom to do so, he would have abandoned his post and sought her out – if only just to see her again.

But he was still a part of this world, and this change did not suddenly absolve him of all responsibility.

The moment his shift ended, though, he tore out of the mine like his feet had been held over coals, and instead of veering toward his home or the Three Stone, he strode purposefully toward the healing wards, adjusting the mattock against his shoulder. He was particularly sore today – they’d been working an especially difficult vein, and he felt as if he was knit together not by bone and blood, but throbbing pain. Yet he couldn’t think of a hot meal and the respite of sleep now, for he had a gift for a wounded girl, and he’d be remiss if he let another day go by without passing it along.

The ‘healing wards’ was a bit of a misnomer – ‘ward’ would have been more appropriate, as the wing itself was quite small and only adequately staffed. Most healers made house calls when the opportunity arose, and thus only the very poor or very hurt were brought here. Bofur imagined that Riva could be counted among both.

He spoke cursorily to one of the healers at the entrance before weaving through the slim halls to the room that they had indicated, and though most of the rooms were dark, there was a bright light that spilled through the cracks of the door out into the hallway. He saw another healer exit the room with a distinctly harassed expression on her face, pinching a wrinkle of consternation between her brows before setting about her duties once more. She looked up quickly when she heard Bofur approach.

“Can I help you?” she asked, her tone wary.

“I’m here to see Riva,” he replied. “I was told this was acceptable . . ?”

The healer’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Are you kin?”

Before he could reply, a voice erupted from beyond the door. “Yes! He’s kin! You can’t possibly deny kin the opportunity to see me, now can you?” said Riva, and behind the healer Bofur could see that she’d nearly pitched herself off the bed in her desperation to be heard and heeded.

Bofur had the impression that Riva had been running the healer ragged, evidenced by the twitch he saw in the woman’s eyebrow, her lips pressed together in irritation. “You mean to say you’re partly responsible for _that?”_  the healer asked him under her breath, incredulous.

“Of course he is!” Riva shouted, teetering precariously on the edge of the bed. “Don’t you see the family resemblance?”

“I can’t say that I do, no.”

“Just wait until my mother gets here,” Riva said with every bit of temerity she could muster. “If you bar him, she won’t be pleased.”

The healer seemed to decide she didn’t care enough to purse this further. With a sigh, she made a vague gesture with her hand and set off in the opposite direction. Bofur watched her leave before pushing into Riva’s quarters, biting back the grin that threatened to take over his face. “Kin, eh?”

“She wouldn’t have let you in, otherwise. Not until Mama came around,” Riva said, pulling the covers up to her chin and beaming at him. “She’s a horrible bore.”

“Why do I get the impression that you’ve been making trouble for your poor healer?” Bofur said, making a game attempt to be stern and failing miserably.

“I haven’t!” Riva retorted indignantly. “Well . . . not more than I would with anyone else, really.”

“That poor woman.”

“She wouldn’t have let you in!” Riva insisted. “Besides, it’s not a bad lie. You do look like you could be my father.”

“Do I, now?” he asked her, amused.

He hadn’t thought anything could embarrass Riva – she was much like him, in that they were incredibly blunt to the degree that they lacked any discernible sort of filter, or even a buffer that would soften the truth – but she flushed to the roots of her bright hair. “I mean – I didn’t mean –“

“Aye, don’t worry yourself over it,” he laughed. “It’s good to see you so improved.”

She latched onto this change of subject gratefully. “I am,” she told him, fidgeting in her bed. “My shoulder was dislocated, they said, and I broke some bones in my leg.” She indicated the binding with a dismissive air. “It’s very boring here.”

“You’ve only been here for one day!”

“I know! It’s terrible. They want to keep me for another two, they said,” Riva said, gesturing indignantly with her unbandaged hand. “I’m liable to lose my wits in this prison.”

“Truly a risk, that,” Bofur grinned.

“Yes, that’s right; have your fun at my expense,” Riva sniffed, though he saw that she struggled against a smile.

He laughed. “It does me good to see you in high spirits.”

“If you can call them as such,” she said, and she paused, almost shy. “I’m glad to see you.”

“Ah, well,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I would have come sooner, but sadly I am still in need of pay, and I suspect my foreman is looking for any opportunity to send me along without work.”

“He wasn’t happy that you insisted on finding me,” said Riva, peering up at him from behind her blankets. “I’m no son.”

“You don’t need to be,” he told her simply.

“It would be easier if I was, though,” said Riva, her earlier enthusiasm somewhat diminished, and he could tell this had been bothering her terribly. “If I was a son.”

“Though it means little, in my estimation you only need be yourself, exactly as you are,” he told her seriously. “None of this wishing you were someone or something else, now. Aye?”

Slowly, her frown gave way to another smile. “Aye,” she said, visibly pleased. It should have surprised him how painful he found her pain, yet by this point, he’d grown accustomed to it. How one could look at her little frown and not wish to erase it was entirely beyond him.

“Ah – before I forget. I made something for you,” he told her, digging around his pockets until he found the new carving of Aylá. “I saw that the hammer broke, so I carved a replacement.”

She brightened instantly, her good hand fluttering in excitement. “I didn’t want to say anything, because I knew how hard you worked on it,” she said, bouncing so that she nearly toppled off the bed, only remaining upright when he caught and steadied her.

“It was how I’d known it was you who had fallen,” he said quietly. “I found it in the dirt by the chasm.”

“I felt it break when I tripped,” she said softly. “And then . . . well, I didn’t think about it until after.”

“Aye, that’s understandable.” He dug the little carving out of his pocket and pressed it into her good hand. “I hope this one lasts.”

She examined it, laying it on her lap and running one small finger over the features of Aylá’s face, the runes he’d etched into the hammer. Perhaps she found the features of the carving familiar, for she looked up at him with an expression that was speculative, almost shrewd, and he wondered if as with all things, this young girl had managed to see through his easy words to the heart of the matter.

“I find I prefer this one to the first,” she said finally, holding it close. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.” He shrugged. “Not large feat, you know.”

“I couldn’t imagine carving anything with such skill as you,” she pointed out. “Anything I whittled would look more like a misshapen lump of mud than a creature or a person or anything.”

“Do you think I started out carving as I do?” he asked her, amused. “I wish I’d kept some of my earlier efforts, so you could see how pathetic they were.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“It’s true! The first thing I ever whittled was a little toy in the shape of a bear, yet you’d never know by looking at it. Bombur asked me if I was trying to make a doorstop.”

“He didn’t,” Riva giggled.

“I swear on my life. I got a bit indignant, you know; I’ve always wanted to carve toys, and here my first effort was so terrible my own kin couldn’t even tell what it was. I was mightily discouraged.”

“But you didn’t give up,” Riva prompted.

“Aye, I did not. Bifur helped me then – back before the axe, he’d carved as a bit of a hobby, and he’d always been much better at it than me. Now his toys are -- well, you’ve seen them. Bit grotesque, aren’t they?”

Riva grinned. “The boys all like them better.”

“Nasty creatures themselves, you know,” he teased. “Anyway. My point is that anything worth doing takes a bit of effort to do right, that’s all. No one plied their passion and trade without a fair bit of work.”

“You’re right,” she said, though she cast an uneasy glance at her bedside table, biting her lip.

“What is it?”

She nodded toward the table, where the lit candle was burning low. “I asked them to bring me another candle, because . . . well, I’m not so fond of the dark,” she admitted, her cheeks coloring with shame. “I can’t abide by it. I feel like I’m drowning, and – well, you know.”

“Aye, I do. And there’s no shame in that, not after what happened,” he told her gently. “After my fall, I couldn’t sleep through the night. I would have the worst nightmares – nothing but darkness, thick enough to choke on. They went away, though. So you should know that it won’t last.”

“How long did they last?” she asked him meekly.

“Ah . . . few months,” he hedged.

“You’re lying.”

He sighed. “A few years. Though you know I’m a coward, and that’s likely the cause.”

“You’re no coward,” she argued. “I’m sorry I said you were.”

“Ah, don’t be. My point remains, though – it won’t last. One day, you’ll wake up and realize you didn’t dream of the mine at all, and then many nights will pass without revisiting that dark place. You can trust me on that.”

Riva nodded, though she did not seem altogether convinced. She chewed on her lip, picking at her hands – a gesture that was achingly reminiscent of her mother. “I almost don’t want to say it.”

“Say what?”

“I mean, because I know you’ll think it’s wrong. But . . . I think about what it would be like to never be afraid sometimes. Like a creature in one of your stories – one that’s made of stone, maybe, or the wind. They would be part of the world, and fear couldn’t touch their hearts.” Her voice was distant, and he had the impression that at that moment, she saw herself as that wind-creature, roaming the world like a wraith, free of anything that would weigh down her heart.

“You know the reason for that, don’t you?” he asked her, inspiration striking him as suddenly as a flash of light.

She shook her head, smoothing her blankets over her lap.

With a conspiratorial grin, he launched into the story, affecting every bit of showy verve that he possessed, the better to bring a reluctant smile to her face. “Once, there was a girl made of sunlight, whose breath was the wind, blood was the clear rivers, and bones were the stones of the mountain. To walk the wilderness was to feel her running beside you, her whispers at your back, her wordless voice urging you forward. To know her was to know freedom.”

“She sounds like something I wish I could be,” Riva said, despondent.

“It’s interesting you say that, lass, for she would look at you and mirror your sentiment. All her freedom and fearlessness amounted to nothing, for she would look at the flesh-bound races of the world and ache with jealousy and desire, and her sharp keening would whistle through the trees every night as she mourned that she had no hands with which to touch, and no heart with which to feel.”

“Why did she care?” asked Riva skeptically. “What could she have wanted to use those things for?”

“There was a man who –“

“So this is a love story?”  Riva cut in, disgruntled. “All your stories are love stories.”

“Aye, all stories worth telling are love stories,” he argued lightly. “May I continue?”

With a sigh, she nodded.

“There was a man who had caught her wandering eye – a simple carpenter who’d never known the fierce need to stretch from one end of the known world to another, who had never ached to roam as free and shiftless as the wind itself, and yet still she desired and envied him.”

“You said that she didn’t have a heart – how could she have desired him?” Riva asked him, skeptical.

“Ah, but her desire wasn’t like yours or mine. It was the desire of the landscape, the body of the world. You run your fingers through the dirt and feel the stone under your hands, and though you know the mountain has no heart of flesh, it still wants for itself.

“But this sunlight girl wanted a heart of flesh, for she watched the carpenter and his village go about their simple lives, and in them she saw something she had always wanted; roots, and the depth of feeling that she’d always suspected to exist but had never known herself. She saw his solid hands shape something from nothing, and she desired. She saw him laugh and cry and bleed, and she desired. She sang and whispered and shouted to him, but she lacked a voice with which to speak, and a body with which to house her shiftless wants, and while some days he thought he heard a faint voice crying on the wind, ultimately, her pleas fell on deaf ears. And she grieved as only the wild can – with fierce storms that went on without end.

“One day an old man came upon her as she raged and grieved, and when he addressed her directly she ceased her storms out of surprise, for not once in her conscious existence had she ever been spoken to. ‘Woman of sunlight and storm,’ said the old man. ‘Cease your wailing.’

“She was incensed that this man who had everything she desired – a body, a heart of flesh, hands with which to shape – would dare denigrate her pain. ‘If you value life, leave me be,’ she hissed with the rustling of the trees.

“’I value my life,’ he told her. ‘As I value all life, for that is why I have come. Your raging has withered the crops and crafts of the villages this far north, and I would seek to undo this. So name your desire, and I will see it done.’”

“’Unless you can give me a body of flesh, hands with which to shape, and a heart with which to know love, you can do nothing for me.’ said the sunlight girl. She expected the old man’s shoulders to slump and a wrinkle of unhappiness to form between his brows, but instead he threw back his cloak and crooked his fingers with the shape of her demand. ‘What you desire can be done,’ he told her. ‘But be certain it’s your only desire, for it cannot be undone.’

“She only saw how miserable she was, and how deeply she wished to be like her carpenter; bound, but free to know true love and not this pale shadow that had consumed her. She bade for the old man to proceed with his gift, hardly able believe her sudden good fortune.”

“Who was he?” Riva whispered, her eyes wide. “How could he just give a body to a spirit?”

“No one knows,” Bofur told her, dropping his voice to a mysterious hush. “Maybe he was a wizard. Maybe he was a spirit himself, powerful enough to take the shape of a man and walk the world as a man would. As for the sunlight girl, the old man kept his word and crafted for her a body as soft and solid as she’d coveted all her days of awareness. She suffered tremendous pain, for it is no easy thing to conjure bones and flesh from nothing, and when at last she was as mortal as you or I, she thought that she had died.

“She had a heart of flesh, but it would not cease its frantic pounding or slow long enough for her to wrangle a small measure of control over herself. She had hands with which to shape and create, but no experience or skill to apply the desire. And she had a voice with which to speak to the carpenter that she was now able to love as completely as is possible for any of us, but the old man had not given her the words she needed to express her desire, nor had he instilled in her courage to see this done.”

“So she shouldn’t have tried to be flesh and blood, then,” said Riva, disappointed. “If it was just more painful and terrifying than being an untouchable spirit.”

“Does it seem that way? Myself, I always thought that the right to our desires is only earned through great sacrifice. If it had been easy for her to be flesh and blood, perhaps it wouldn’t have been anything worth wanting. But when she finally spoke to her carpenter, it was more a triumph than it would have been had her choice had been easy, and if she had never known the touch of fear in her heart of flesh. When he loved her and she loved him, it was doubly significant, as it wouldn’t have been if she’d never had to sacrifice for his sake. And when she finally created something flesh and blood and bone, she loved it more fiercely than one would have if the chance had always been open to them, and not bought by giving something away.”

Riva said nothing for a long moment, mulling over his story. “I don’t understand what your point is.”

“My point is you shouldn’t wish to be like the sunlight girl, who knew no fear, but never knew love either, and who went through great lengths just for the privilege of what you have without sacrifice. You can’t cut out one and leave the other untouched – they’re part and parcel with your own heart of flesh.”

She sighed. “You seem to know everything.”

“Not everything,” he laughed. “Not even some things. I just like the sound of my own voice.”

“You always say that,” she said, but she smiled.

He was pleased to see that the story had put her mind at ease, and if he was being honest with himself, it had put him somewhat at ease as well. It had served as a reaffirmation of all that he knew, and all that he stood to gain.

It was only after he noticed the candle growing dangerously low did he realize how long he’d been here, and yet there still was no sign of Rikke. “Shouldn’t your mother have been here by now?” he asked Riva, good humor fading.

“She should have been, yes,” said Riva, picking at a loose thread in her blanket. “She wasn’t even supposed to work late, she said.”

Something occurred to him – a resonance of memory from a similar chain of events, over a month ago. “This isn’t another one of your tricks, is it?” Bofur asked her pointedly.

“No!” she retorted, indignant. “And if it was, it would be stupid of me to try and use the same trick again.”

This took the shape and feel of logic, and in that moment he felt fear stirring in his heart, though this time it had grown sharp, for no longer was Rikke a vague interest but a woman that he’d grown to care for immensely, beyond reason or hope. “If you don’t mind being left alone, I think I’ll go and see if everything’s all right,” he said, making his voice light.

“Would you?” Riva asked, and if he’d been paying attention, he might have seen a small, pleased smile curving in her lips.

“Aye. In the meantime, though” he said, and he rummaged through his pouch until he produced and lit a spare candle, placing it on her bedside table with a grin like a flash. “This should keep the dark at bay.”

 


	12. Chapter 12

The wizards conferred for most of the day. They spoke in low, ominous voices, and Bilbo was only able to catch the odd phrase every now and then, rendered inexplicable by their lack of context. Not that he was listening too carefully to begin with; he was distracted by the usual parade of anxieties, chief of which being the frequent chittering he heard in the distance, and the way the sound sent a fearful chill running up his spine.

Beside him, Bofur had fallen silent, leaning his great mattock against a tree and lighting his pipe. After a few moments, his face was all but obscured by pipe-smoke save for his eyes, which glinted strangely through the murk. Bilbo felt vaguely guilty for lashing out as his long-suffering friend as he had, but not sorry enough to break the silence.

Home felt very far away, then. He thought of Bag End in the forgiving light of fond recollection, and ached as if he hadn’t seen his home in many years rather than a few uncomfortable weeks. To his reckoning, adventures were a nasty business, and from the moment he’d come to regret his decision to leave, he spent long hours attempting to pinpoint where he’d gone wrong and what specifically had launched him from the comforts of his safe and familiar life and into this wrong-footed excursion.

After some reflection, the answer came to him with a sudden burst of insight. It had been that song, that damnable lament that the dwarves had sang the night they’d invaded his home, over a month ago. Their voices had been pitched low, and the melody had been as mournful and mysterious as the mountain itself, the subject of that aching lament, and Bilbo had almost felt as if he stood before the solitary peak itself, instead of his four poster bed.

It had stirred in him a feeling he hadn’t known since childhood. As a youth, Bilbo would frequently roam off in search of adventure, desperate to see the remote lands beyond the Shire, and to perhaps have a glimpse of the elves, who had fascinated him from the time he was small. In that lament, he had remembered everything he’d put away once he’d grown – the desire to see places and experience things that were outside the scope of his quiet, responsible life.

Well, here he was, in the midst of an adventure so like the juvenile fantasies he’d cultivated out of boredom for so long, and in his estimation, a respectable hobbit like himself had no business on them.

Bofur would argue that Bilbo was necessary (at least as a source of amusement), and Gandalf would look down on him with twitching brows and rumble something about his Took blood and how this was good for him, but at the moment Bilbo saw none of this purported good. He felt very sorry for himself, then; fully aware that it was childish and immature to do so.

He became aware of Bofur humming that familiar tune, which spoke of a lonely peak and a home once lost, and it was almost as if the dwarf had read his mind. Bilbo craned to look at him, the brim of his hat pulled low, a wispy cloud of pipe-smoke hovering over his head. At that moment, Bofur himself seemed as remote as the mountain he sang of, and Bilbo wondered foolishly that if he spoke to his long-suffering friend, would he hear?

“Have you ever seen the Lonely Mountain?” Bilbo finally asked, after searching for an appropriate voice to his shapeless worries, or perhaps a distraction from them.

“Me? No,” said Bofur, and he waved away the smoke to see Bilbo better. “I’ve heard tales, though. As have you, I imagine.”

“Bits and pieces,” Bilbo hedged. The night the dwarves had invaded his home, they’d spoken of Erebor and the dragon and their intention to reclaim it now that it had lain silent for more than sixty years, but no one had ever told him how the dragon had come to invade their home, nor had they spoken of their trials since that grim exodus. Bilbo wasn’t heartless; he imagined it was quite painful for some of them to speak of, especially Thorin, who remembered it as clearly as if it had happened only days ago.

“Are you asking for the story?” Bofur said slyly.

“If you’ve never seen it, you’ve never suffered the loss of it. And maybe it will be easier for you to speak of than for the others.”

“Aye, Erebor was never my loss,” Bofur said. “My kin and I come from Moria, another home that was taken from us.”

“O-oh,” Bilbo said, shamed. “If you’d rather not –“

“You’re kind to worry, though you should know I never pass up a chance to tell a story,” Bofur said easily. “Only meant to say that while I’d never seen Erebor – or Moria either, for that matter – I know what the loss is. I know it from my own experience, and . . . well, from another’s. From the stories she used to tell me.”

“Rikke?” asked Bilbo.

“Aye. Her kin were distantly descended of Durin, and Erebor was their home. She’d never seen it with her own eyes either – Erebor fell long before she was born – but her father and grandfather would speak of it wistfully, for they were rich and powerful, and wanted for nothing as denizens of Erebor.”

“She was . . . wealthy, then?”

“Not when I knew her,” Bofur said, clearing his throat. “It’s not important.”

“If you say so.”

“Didn’t you want to hear of Erebor? Or was this another attempt to learn all my secrets?”

“I won’t apologize for being curious,” Bilbo huffed. “I wouldn’t be either, if you weren’t so evasive.”

Bofur grinned. “She would tell me of the city carved from precious stone, the streets polished so brightly that you could lean over and examine your reflection above your feet. She told me of the veins of ore that ran down the chasms like rivers, extending farther than mortal sight allows. And when she spoke of the Great Forge, where the crafts were hewn, I would see a glimpse of her as she would have been in a better world, one where she’d been permitted to pursue that which she loved.”

Bilbo gaped. “Was she a smith, then?”

“Aye, and a fine one, at that.”

“Are dwarven women not allowed to smith?”

“It’s . . . uncommon,” Bofur said uneasily. “They are already so few, and most are under the hand of their husbands. Not that they are cruel to their wives, for most are not, but there is an . . . expectation. Of loyalty.” He fell silent. “It’s difficult to explain.”

“I’d never have thought anything would be difficult for you to explain,” Bilbo said, surprised.

“If you were a dwarf, you would understand. We’ve never had a need to explain it to the other folk, and so . . . I suppose I just don’t have the words.”

But words were almost unnecessary. Bilbo watched his friend, and while he was very accustomed to Bofur’s reticence, there was something slightly different about his reaction to this subject. Instead of playing off his vague replies as a joke, Bofur seemed genuinely uncomfortable, and in this his discomfort spoke volumes. Bilbo began to see a clearer picture of what Bofur preferred not to say, and he did not know what to make of it.

“Forget about it,” Bilbo said in an attempt to be charitable, for he did not like seeing Bofur so uncomfortable. “So Erebor was a great dwarven kingdom.”

“The greatest, by most reckoning,” Bofur said, brightening. “I suppose that’s what brought Smaug down on their heads, for even as far as dragons go he was a greedy bastard, and the wealth of Erebor was too precious to resist.

“One day there was a hot, dry wind that came down from the north and flattened the pines of the mountains; if you could persuade a survivor to speak of that day, he would tell you the odd whistling the wind made between the trees, not a healthy wind that rises and falls, but a gust as vicious as the beast itself. They would tell you the air was so hot that it would burn your face and boil you alive in your armor, so that when Smaug himself finally appeared, the foul wind had mostly done the work for him.

“But that didn’t stop him from laying waste to Dale, the human city just outside the gates of Erebor, before turning his murderous gaze to the mountain itself. And it’s just like the stories you’ve heard, I’m sure; mighty armies are no match for a beast that can cook the flesh off your bones merely by breathing, let alone if he makes fair use of his teeth and claws, which are like –“

“– Like razors and meathooks; yes, I remember,” said Bilbo, swallowing the uncomfortable lump in his throat.

“Aye, razors and meathooks. So those who survived fled their home and into the wild. I’ve heard that Thranduil and the elves had journeyed to Erebor to lend aid, but they took one look at the devastation and turned tail. Don’t suppose our King will ever forgive them for that,” said Bofur. “Not that I blame him. I may have not been a part of that exodus, but I saw its result. My family had settled in the Blue Mountains when the refuges of Erebor came, and you’d never seen a sorrier lot in all your life. Many died, and those who lived were hardened by survival, and by all that they had lost.”

“Did you see Thorin in those days?” Bilbo asked, and he realized belatedly that his voice had dropped to a hush.

“A few glimpses here and there. He didn’t settle, as some of the others did. He travelled abroad in search of work instead. I think settling in a place that wasn’t his home proved to be too much to bear, and he would rather roam than concede defeat in that way,” Bofur mused, tapping the bowl of his pipe thoughtfully. “But I saw him once, when he’d returned from one of his bouts of wandering. I was young – about your age, actually, which is fairly young by dwarf reckoning. He strode through the commons and into the noble quarter, right past where I sat, and I knew him instantly, though I’d never seen him before.” Bofur trailed off, his brows pulling together. “Made rather an indelible impression, for he’s quite a lot what we dwarves aspire to be; proud, strong, apt in battle, and so on. But  . . . I didn’t think I’d ever seen a person filled with more sorrow. Not then, anyway.”

Bilbo considered this and ultimately weighed it as accurate, for his own experience was much the same; he’d seen Thorin as proud and regal, but impossibly sad, evidenced in the way he looked out at the world as if expecting it to fail him again in some way. If he ever gained to the courage to speak to the wayward king, he might have told him that though he’d never known such a grief in his life, he understood it. Likely, this would upset Thorin more than anything, but Bilbo entertained the fantasy nonetheless.

He was deeply engrossed in his musing when he heard a sound that sent chills down his spine, and raised the hair on the back of his neck; a feral snarling, and the sound of a creature loping toward them at an impossible speed.

“Is that a wolf?” Bilbo wondered, and he shot to his feet, drawing closer to the rest of the dwarves and attempting to control the frantic beating of his heart.

“Wolves?” Bofur breathed, and Bilbo felt another chill of fear nearly overtake him at the sound of stunned horror in Bofur’s voice – a sound with which he was altogether unfamiliar. “No, that is not a wolf.”

\--

The trek to the Crooked Hammer was not an easy jaunt, but Bofur made it in nearly record time. Hadn’t he been sore and exhausted earlier? Now it seemed as if he moved under the power of his own apprehension, which had grown to an impossible size in the span of only a few moments.

There was a resonance of memory in this, but the differences were stark; he was alone, she was no stranger to him, and his instinct told him this was no trick.

There were outlanders that frequented the Crooked Hammer; hard folk that wandered the wilds and were used to taking what they willed. There were hunters and trappers and rangers, who were more familiar with the laws of the wilderness than they were with the graces of society. Not that Bofur counted himself an expert on society’s graces, but he wasn’t naïve; he knew what kind of men there were, and how they saw those smaller than them.

Rikke made no secret that she hated his occupation, and he found that he understood that hatred quite well. If he’d been a richer, more powerful man, he would have given her everything he had, anything to keep her away from folk like this.

There was the added problem that if he voiced these concerns to her, he risked her wrath, for she was quite proud, and fond of telling him that she could handle herself. He supposed that was true, but it didn’t ease his fear. Even the most skilled warrior need only slip up once to be killed or worse.

He pushed into the Crooked Hammer with his heart in his mouth, searching the tavern until he caught a flash of her coiled auburn hair, her dark eyes tight with apprehension. He saw a few isolated groups of outlanders – wandering rangers, by his eyes, and a few trappers – but most worrisome was a loud group of what he guessed to be human merchants (for their clothing was far too fine to be that of a hunter), carousing loudly and grabbing at Rikke’s skirts in order to get her attention. He was only aware of grinding his teeth after his jaw cracked loudly enough to pop in his ears.

But he pushed away his temper and took a seat near the merchants, fishing out his pipe and smoking deeply, the better to soothe his nerves. When she finally approached his table, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“It’s a relief to see you,” Rikke told him, her voice low. He saw that her arms trembled from exhaustion as she struggled to adjust the weight of her tray against her hip.

“I – I was about to say the same,” Bofur admitted. “Riva was worried when you didn’t come. And . . . well, so was I.”

He saw her cheeks darken, even in the low light of the tavern. “You are kind to think of me,” she said softly.

“I could hardly be blamed for it,” he said, attempting to inject some levity into the conversation.

She almost smiled. “How you love to exaggerate.”

“One man’s exaggeration is another man’s truth, you know,” he said. “May I ask you what’s kept you so late?”

“My . . .  employer,” she said quietly, with a subtle glance over her shoulder at the foul-tempered proprietor; a man of middle years, with dirty hair and a sour grimace that had cut permanent lines into his face. “The merchants have a lot of coin and no sense, and as I’m sure you could have guessed, they are deep in their cups with no sign of stopping.” She shifted on her feet. “A fair profit is to be made, and all that.”

“I hope you don’t mind if I stay for a drink, then,” he said, making his voice bright.

“I wouldn’t mind,” she told him, and she hesitated. “In fact, I find it would go a long way to easing my heart.”

With that, she returned to the bar to pour a fresh set of ales for the merchants, and he was left with her soft words – such a simple confession, and yet as resonant as a song.

He nursed the ale she brought him without really noticing the flavor, instead electing to swirl the contents within the mug. He watched her progress through the tavern, how efficient she was, unflagging even though he could see the tightness of exhaustion and unhappiness in her eyes. He watched her evade the groping of the merchants with practiced surety, and it put a hot pit of disgust in his gut to realize that this was probably a common occurrence for her.

He thought of Rikke as she should have been. Flushed from a forge, her long hair pulled away from her face. He thought of her hands calloused from long days spent smithing, maybe old burns and scars running up her arms. And yet, he thought of a smile on her face, for she was where she was meant to be, and that was enough to fill him with more joy than he had any right to expect.

So absorbed was he in his thoughts that he almost didn’t notice when two young dwarves stepped over the threshold of the tavern, slamming the door behind them so it shuddered in its frame. It took him a moment to place their faces, for they were specifically familiar to him.

They placed him first. “Mr. Bofur,” Kíli said brightly, taking a seat at his table and pushing his hood back so that his hair stood on end, his brother Fíli following suit. “Finest toymaker in Blue Mountains.”

The brothers had grown since Bofur had seen them last – indeed, Fíli was even sporting an elaborately braided beard, as befit his status as a prince and heir to his uncle. When they were younger, they had come around his stall fairly often, to the point where they started seeking him out when he was called away to the mines. They had not been nearly as tenacious as Riva had, but he had always found himself glad for their company.

Despite his general agitation, Bofur grinned. “Why, if it isn’t the princelings. How best might a humble toymaker assist you this fine evening?” His grin widened. “Though, I rather think you’ve outgrown my wares.”

“You’d think, wouldn’t you? But I’m fairly certain Kíli still has that wind-up dragon you made him,” said Fíli, throwing a smug elbow into his brother’s side.

“I – to look at!” Kíli said, outraged. “I mean, it’s fine craftsmanship.”

“I’m pleased that my crafts have made an impression,” said Bofur, taking a puff of his pipe. “Though I find myself curious what could bring you esteemed princelings to such a questionable place.”

The brothers shot each other mirrored expressions of unease. “Well . . . “ said Kíli.

“We thought we’d nip away for a bit,” Fíli shrugged. “Get some space. I hear the drinks here are fine.”

“Right! We’ve been everywhere else,” Kíli said, latching onto his brother’s excuse. “Haven’t tried here yet.”

“I’m sure it never occurred to you that this place is fairly famous for its rough folk, and the frequency with which a good brawl breaks out,” Bofur said nonchalantly.

He’d caught them; he saw it all over their faces. Kíli actually flushed, and Fíli rubbed at the back of his neck. “We might have been a bit bored,” said Kíli.

“Kíli was,” Fíli said. “I was fine with staying in.”

“What a load of shite!” Kíli hissed. “I distinctly remember you saying that you would chuck all your knives into our door if we didn’t find something to do.”

“I was only exaggerating, dear brother,” said Fíli. “I’m not responsible if you take me seriously.”

“I only take you seriously as you do yourself.”

Fíli ignored this with great dignity. “You here for any particular reason?”

Bofur shrugged. “The drinks are indeed fine here,” he said lightly. “The flavor of the clientele is … not.”

“You mean them?” Kíli asked, nodding toward the rowdy merchants, who were now signing a bawdy song at the top of their voices. “I’d heard there was a caravan coming through.”

“It’s likely they want to peddle their wares in the commons tomorrow,” said Fíli.

“Likely,” Bofur agreed. “Though the sooner they continue east the better, in my opinion.”

Kíli watched one of them take another grab at Rikke, his dark eyes narrowing in dislike. “You hear about the honorable men to the south and east, but I have no patience for these drifters.”

“Rough folk,” Fíli agreed.

“Dishonest,” Kíli said.

“As likely to cheat you as they are to greet you.”

Bofur thought it was probable they were echoing their uncle, who was widely known for his distrust for all the races of the world, especially the elves. From what he understood, their wayward King had reason enough for it, for he’d seen his home fall and as he fled, his pleas for aid had fallen on deaf or unwilling ears.

“Aye,” Bofur said, suddenly eager to change the subject. The merchants were sloppily drunk, but he didn’t think they were so addled that they couldn’t make out an insult when they heard one. “How is our King these days?”

Bofur had expected this to be a safe subject of conversation, but to his surprise, Fíli and Kíli shot each other equally uncomfortable looks. “Well enough,” Fíli hedged after a moment.

“Is that a lie, or are you displeased to find your uncle well?” Bofur asked, quirking a brow.

“He’s been abroad,” Kíli said. “I’m not sure if I should say on what business.”

“You _shouldn’t,”_ Fíli hissed, almost below earshot. “Remember what he told us.”

“But it’s just Bofur,” Kíli argued. “Who is he going to tell?”

“Who wouldn’t he tell?”

Bofur smirked. “You’re under no obligation to tell me anything,” he reminded them, glancing at Rikke as she cut across the room before focusing back on the brothers. “It was a simple question. And I wouldn’t have known anything was wrong if you hadn’t made such a deal of it.”

“Dishonesty doesn’t naturally occur to me,” Kíli sniffed.

“Says the princeling whose evaded his handlers and snuck off to a dodgy joint in search of a fight,” Bofur laughed. “They say he who knows himself knows the face of the Maker.”

“What nonsense,” Fíli muttered.

“Aye, likely,” said Bofur.

Kíli took another look around the bar before leaning over the table, as closely as he could manage. “But you wouldn’t say anything, would you?”

“Not if you asked me not to. And I’ll go ahead and assume that you’d rather I not.”

Kíli shot one last look at Fíli, who crossed his arms over his chest and jerked his head as if to give his grudging permission. “Uncle wants to retake Erebor,” he said in a reverent hush. “He wants to take back our home.”

Bofur said nothing; for once in his life, nothing immediately occurred to him, nothing that would have been appropriate anyway. He knew the long scar of Erebor, how it haunted its survivors and their descendants, how it loomed in their memories like a specter in the shape of a lonely peak. “Is that even possible?” Bofur breathed. “I thought with Smaug –“

“He hasn’t been seen in sixty years,” Kíli told him. “No one dares go near in case he’s still there.”

“But it won’t be long until they do,” Fíli said, his brows pulled low over livid eyes. “Nosing through the ruins, stealing whatever they can get their hands on. Stealing the wealth of our people!”

Kíli laid a reassuring hand on his brother’s arm. “Not if Uncle has anything to say about it,” he promised devoutly.

“Is this . . . will this be happening soon, then?” Bofur asked.

“Aye,” Kíli said.

“Less than a year’s time,” Fíli agreed. “Uncle doesn’t think it’ll take more than a year to make the arrangements.”

“He needs to find stout allies,” Kíli explained. “As great as he is, he wouldn’t be able to take back the mountain alone.”

Fíli looked as if he wanted to add to this when the merchants erupted in obnoxious laughter, the verse of their song veering in to the highly suggestive as they took another swipe at Rikke. Bofur saw a muscle twitching in her jaw as she struggled to avoid them, but one managed to sling his arm around her waist, jerking her with so much violence that her tray flew out of her hands and crashed onto the floor.

She wrenched free, her hand hovering over her waist. “Do not touch me,” she warned in a voice as cold as ice.

“Been tryin’ to get your attention all night,” one of the men slurred, making another grab for her as his fellows laughed and laughed. “Playin’ coy just makes it better.”

Bofur was out of his seat before he was consciously aware of it, Fíli and Kíli following suit. (Later, he’d remember that they’d been bristling for a fight and would have leaped to take offense at any little thing, but at the moment he didn’t care).  “Around these parts, we keep our hands to ourselves unless asked otherwise,” Bofur said airily, though he would have liked to sink his fist in the man’s face. “And we speak to our women with respect.”

“Aye, but she ain’t one of ours, is she?” another merchant sneered, lurching to his feet. “Around our parts, they’re a right sight better to look at than your fat hairy hags.”

“Say that again, you pus-faced shite for brains!” Kíli snarled as he shouldered past Bofur, bristling like a wet cat.

“Ooh, Bay, get a load of this one!” said the first man. “Pretty enough to be one of their women, don’t you agree?”’

“Not even. More like a babe, with his sweet little bare face,” said Bay, leering. “Think he’s still wet behind the ears?”

“You’re a long way from your mam, aren’t you, whelp?”

Kíli’s rage seemed to have rendered him incoherent, but before he say another word, Fíli leapt to his brother’s defense, “Do you know who you’re speaking to, you wretch?” Fíli hissed

“A ponce and his keeper?” said one.

“A whore and his lover?” said another and the group dissolved into laughter once again.

Bofur threw up an arm to restrain the brothers, whose rage now went beyond words. “Here I thought you were abominable and blind to cast aspersions on an unquestionably fair woman, but it seems to me your blindness and stupidity extends to all corners of your perception, for which you have my deepest sympathy.”

“Speak plainly, you shite,” said the first man, all laughter forgotten.

“My apologies,” Bofur said, his vicious grin widening. “I am calling you blind and stupid, and to do so hardly requires exaggeration. If you value the use of your extremities, I suggest you leave before my friends and this lovely woman here relieve you of them.” Bofur paused, extinguishing his pipe and storing it in his coat. “She’s quite fond of her blade, you know, and I gather she hasn’t had a chance to use it in a good while.”

“Was that a threat?” one man hissed, leaning so close that his spittle flecked Bofur’s cheek.

“Sounded like one to me, Bay,” said another.

“It’d be a threat if I thought you had the intestinal fortitude to start anything, which I don’t,” said Bofur easily.

He’d done it. The ringleader let out a roar of indignation and cocked his fist back before slamming it in Bofur’s face with so much force that he would have lost his feet had Fíli not been standing right behind him. He heard his nose break more than he felt it, and he dimly thought it was a blessing he had such a thick skull. But he was no lily-livered merchant man, who’d likely never gotten his hands dirty in a mine on any day of his short life. He was a dwarf, and they were made of stronger stuff than most.

He threw himself at his attacker with fists flying, Kíli and Fíli not far behind, and chaos descended.

It quickly became apparent that he needn’t have bothered worrying over Rikke, for she acquitted herself far better than he ever could have. She might not have been as strong as the warriors, but she was fast and fierce, and any man that came toward her with ill intent soon found himself laid on his back.

Kíli hurled one of the slighter men across the room, crowing in glee when the poor fool skidded over the other end with the glassware.  Not to be outdone, Kíli grabbed a plate and smashed one across the face with it, laughing without abandon when the sop dropped like a sack of potatoes before launching into the next.

Had they called Fíli and Kíli ponces? Little boys? These were the heirs of Durin, and they were bred and trained for battle. They’d learned of the ways of war for longer than these foolish men had been alive.

Bofur might not have been a princeling with decades of training at his disposal, but he acquitted himself rather well, all things considered. His was a common line, and brawling is the stock of commoners – the lessons they learn from a young age. His skull throbbed from the blow and he felt a deluge of blood pouring out of his broken nose, but he wasn’t beaten – not even close. He flew at the leader and sank his cocked fist into his doughy, fearful face, and with a grin, Bofur proceeded to pummel the disrespect out of his mouth.

In the end, the foul proprietor broke up the fight (though there wasn’t much to break up by the time he’d inserted himself into the fray – most of the men had been soundly trounced). Everyone in the tavern had seen the merchants throw the first punch, so they were summarily evicted from the premises and sent on their way. Bofur thought the proprietor would have been angrier at the development, though he realized the merchants had already been taken for quite a lot of money before the fight.

Fíli wiped his cut lip, grinning. “You’re handy in a fight,” he said to Bofur.  “Have you trained?”

“Not in the way you mean,” he said, chuckling. “Hardly the first fight I’ve been in.”

“It shows,” Kíli said appreciatively.

“Ah, well,” Bofur said, rubbing the back of his neck and swaying in place. His head ached, and at the moment he wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep for a few years. In the throes of a brawl, it was easy to push on regardless of any injuries, but once the haze faded he was left with them.

The brothers elected to stay the night at the inn, a fact which pleased the foul proprietor considerably. They attempted to pass it off as a matter of convenience, but Bofur knew their mother, and he knew she would not be pleased to see her sons and the heirs of Durin in such a state.

For his part, he waited, perched by the door until the proprietor saw fit to let Rikke leave. He’d taken to pinching his nose in an attempt to stem the flow of blood, but for the most part it was a vain effort. He felt strangely fuzzy, as if the world blurred around the edges of his vision, and he wondered if he’d been hit harder than he initially thought.

Finally, Rikke took him by the arm and pushed out into the darkness beyond. They said nothing the whole trek back to the mountain, and though a part of him savored the feel of her hand on his arm, another part of him buzzed with strange anticipation. She was an immensely proud woman, and he hadn’t thought of it at the moment – he’d been far too angry – but perhaps standing up and speaking for her would be offensive.

Once they stepped through the gates and passed the guards, however, she craned around and took advantage of the light to get a better look at him. He was surprised to hear her laugh, her eyes bright with amusement.

“You’ve quite a smart mouth, you know,” she said lightly. “I don’t know why I’m surprised it’s taken you this wrong to run into trouble on its account.”

“You think I said those things carelessly?” he asked her. “I’m a fool, but not that much of a fool.”

“How do you mean?”

“If I’d trounced those shites the minute I’d wanted to, I’d have been barred from the tavern, and I had no intention of doing something so stupid. Far better for them to take the first swing.”

Comprehension dawned over her features. “For a fool, that’s fairly clever.”

“I wouldn’t call it that,” Bofur hedged, shrugging. “It worked out in my favor, though.”

“Except for your poor nose,” she whispered, reaching up to touch it, so lightly he might not have known had he not been watching her.

“You’re not angry?”

“Why would I be?”

He looked away.  “I thought – well, I wasn’t thinking; that’s the problem. And I realized you might have felt like I was . . . like I thought you couldn’t handle yourself? I don’t know.”

She touched his cheek, so gently that it might have hurt. “I’ve never had my honor defended before,” she said, and this time she was unable to contain her smile. “Not that I needed you to, but . . . I rather liked it.”

Perhaps it was because he’d been hit in the head a few times in the span of the evening, or perhaps it was that her presence alone was dangerous in how it affected him, how easy it became to lose control and make another misstep. But he took her touch as an invitation and her smile as encouragement. He’d suffer for being wrong, but at the moment he couldn’t imagine that he was, not when she looked up at him as she did, when her touched burned over his raw skin.

He kissed her as if he’d been waiting to do so all his life, and he only knew, beyond then, that she did not recoil, that her gasp was not colored by fear but instead desire, that her hands slid over his face and into his hair as lightly as a sigh. And he was too rough, for what this was – he was too insistent, for at times he felt as if he wrestled whatever this was without hope of ever seeing it fulfilled or defeated, so it was pleasure beyond knowing that it was acceptable, that it was permissible, that it was wanted. He breathed her in, pulled her closer –

With a hiss of pain, he recoiled, clutching his throbbing nose. “For the love of –“ he muttered furiously.

She bit her lip against another smile, and he tried not to notice that they were swollen from kissing. “Oh, Bofur,” she said, like a sigh.

“It’s fine,” he said dismissively. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” she admonished.

“Trust me, I’ve had worse.”

“I know what you’re trying to do,” she told him, arching a brow. “Are you afraid I’ll forget this?”

“I’m afraid you’ll change your mind,” he said quietly. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

“Normally I would say it’s a risk,” she told him. “But for you, I’ll say you have nothing to worry about.”

He would have kissed her again in that thrilling, breathless moment when she confirmed everything he was too foolish and afraid to hope for himself, but she laid two fingers over his lips, so as to hold him in place. “Now I have a daughter to see to, and you have some wounds that need caring for.”

The thought of parting now was acutely painful, but he struggled to make his tone bright. “Aye . . . I’ll see you soon, then.”

But she smiled and shook her head. “I was going to request that you join me. I was responsible for your wounds, so it’s only fair I treat them.”

“Have you skill in those matters, then?” he asked breathlessly.

“Enough,” she said, lacing her fingers through his own. “Come with me.”

And he did.

 

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

In one direction went Radagast and his Rhosgobel rabbits, and the orcs followed as if driven by fear themselves, and a thirst for blood that could not be quenched. Bilbo could hear the mad cackling of the wizard far after he’d launched forward, through the thick treeline and onto the plains. He weaved and wobbled and brandished his staff like a madman, and on the whole he succeeded in making himself a tantalizing target – too offensive to be allowed to live.

In the other direction, the Company fled with Gandalf at the fore. Bilbo could only hear the odd phrase through the deafening volume of his panicked breathing as he struggled to keep pace with the rest of the dwarves. His heart beat somewhere in the vicinity of his throat, where he thought briefly that he might choke on it should he take one wrong step. At the head, he caught an odd vision of Gandalf’s scarf waving in the wind like a banner.

They were going to die. This certainty settled over Bilbo like a foul mist, and rather than making him faster and more vicious, instead he felt panic and despair threaten to lay him low. He was falling behind now, the dwarves pulling ahead as they drew level with Gandalf. He saw the high sun beating down on them all like a single, ambivalent eye fixed above.

He thought it was fitting that he would die so far away from home – punishment enough for his foolishness.

He’d never seen an orc before in his life, not to mention the fearful beasts that had nearly done them in only moments before. He’d frozen, and it had only been Kíli’s reflexes and Thorin’s might that had saved them. And then, they had fled.

At the edge of hearing, there was snarling and yelping and the cries of Radagast, growing fainter and fainter as he attempted to draw them away. But the snarling did not diminish – instead, he heard it increase, and with it another wave of panic coursed through him.

The sword Gandalf had given him bounced uselessly at his hip, and as he watched Thorin draw his own blade, he wondered what in the world he was supposed to do with his own. If a warg came charging at him, he knew he’d freeze and possibly drop the sword, and that would be the unceremonious end of Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, too unskilled and stupid to live. The gift took the unfortunate feel of mockery, then; as if Gandalf had known he would fail in this way, and his end would amount to nothing more than a vicious warg’s meal, bits of him stuck in the beast’s teeth long after he’d been eaten --

A voice cut through his panic, as loud as if whoever spoke had shouted in his year. “Bilbo!” they called, and Bilbo realized belatedly that it was Bofur, shouting his name with his hand outstretched, as if trying to take him by the arm. He lagged behind just as Bilbo had, but not due to the dwarf’s own lack of speed but a promise that he’d made half the day ago, a promise to keep an eye on Bilbo, even though he wasn’t a brave warrior or prince, even though he called himself a coward with as much frequency as Bilbo himself did.

And against all odds, Bilbo was encouraged. If Bofur could forget his fear long enough to remember him, Bilbo could attempt the same. He lowered his head and pushed himself faster than he ever had in his life, drawing level with the rest of the sprinting dwarves.

He could no longer hear the mad taunting of Radagast, but the snarling of the orcs grew closer, and over the hill he saw them crest the summit and plunge into the valley, loping with more speed than Bilbo thought possible for a creature unaided by magic. That horrible vision of his flesh caught between the teeth of a warg assaulted him again, and his stomach curled onto itself in a tight knot of fear. Had he eaten anything in the last day, he would have surely brought it up the way it came by now, which he was sure he’d never live down (not that he was likely to live, anyway).

“Quickly!” Gandalf called, leading them around a craggy rock face and down a gentle slope, toward another outcropping of rock.

“Where are you leading us?” Thorin hissed, his hand curling over the hilt of his blade.

To this, Gandalf had no answer.

But Bilbo knew, in the way you know when a friend is concealing something they believe you will disagree with. He knew by the old wizard’s eyes, which spoke of a plan he had not shared with anyone but himself.

They skidded down the slope and threw their backs against the outcropping just as one orc broke away from the rest of the pack, alerted by an odd scent, perhaps, or an undue sound. Bilbo stumbled as he struggled to make himself as small as possible, and it was only Bofur who saved him from sprawling face-first into the ground; he grabbed the front of Bilbo’s shirt and dragged him upright, pushing him against the rock and keeping a broad hand pressed against his chest. None of them dared breathe.

And that’s when he heard it – above them loomed a warg and its rider, sniffing the air for the smell of dwarf, perhaps, or listening hard for another undue sound. At his side, Thorin glanced at Kíli and nodded once, and as quickly as he could, the prince leapt from his place of cover and drew his bow, loosing an arrow that struck the warg in the neck and sent it tumbling from its perch.

But they were not quick enough. The orc let out a scream that echoed through the suddenly silent plains.

Bilbo was aware of many things at once: Thorin rushing forward and drawing his blade, hacking at the twitching warg while Bifur broke rank and let loose a litany of Khuzdul that Bilbo didn’t understand through his teeth, flying at the orc while brandishing his boar spear; Bombur frozen like a statue just in front of Bilbo; the visage of the orc, which was more terrible than Bilbo had ever imagined in his wildest daydreams; and lastly, the feel of Bofur’s trembling hand on his chest, holding him back as if to brace him against the carnage.

Finally, the orc and its mount lay dead at their feet, and all was still. Bilbo dared to hope that the worst was over – but no; in the distance, a chorus of howling carried over the plain, and in that manner, he knew. Radagast’s distraction had failed; the orcs were coming for them.

“Run!” Thorin shouted, and with that the Company pushed away from the rock face and sprinted in the opposite direction, down another slope, onto an open plane covered by sparse pine trees. Above them, the sun loomed, as if reduced to a grim harbinger of their fate.

It was then that he noticed Gandalf was gone. He was not the only one to notice, either; Dwalin let out of a cry of outrage as he drew his axes, as if betrayal no longer surprised him. “The wizard’s abandoned us,” he snarled.

And in that bleak, futile moment, when Bilbo saw the wargs descend the slope with their riders bearing their crude weapons high above their heads, he believed Dwalin.

Thorin seemed to as well, for he drew his sword once again and rounded on the Company with a vicious look in his eye, and Bilbo saw in him the warrior that Balin had spoken of, the fierce dwarf prince who had warded off the blows of a mighty pale orc with nothing more than a sundered oak branch. “Then rally to me and stand your ground!” he called to them, wielding his elven blade with all the fury he kept burning in his heart, and Bilbo thought that if he was to die, he would wish to die as unflinchingly and fearlessly as Thorin Oakenshield. He drew his own sword, and at his side Bofur brandished his great mattock, and Bilbo saw a muscle twitching in his jaw.  He wondered then; what was it his friend thought of as they stared death down?

Perhaps they would have died valiantly as dwarves had they not heard a voice over the snarling of the orcs – “This way, you fools!” It was Gandalf, and he had not abandoned them after all, but sought out a place of refuge – a cave in another rock face across the span of their plain.

Without a moment of hesitation, Bilbo tore off in the direction of the cave just as he heard the wargs approach. The warriors held them off while the rest threw themselves into the darkness, and while Bilbo was certainly not fond of dank caves and dark places full of unknown terrors, he found he vastly preferred it to the eventuality of ending up as a warg’s meal. He hurled himself into the cave after Bofur, crashing into the dwarf when they reached the bottom.

“Steady, now,” said Bofur softly, pulling Bilbo up and setting him on his feet before seeing to his brother. He watched Fíli and Kíli tumble into their cave with Thorin quickly on their heels. Above them, Bilbo could heard the orcs approaching, punctuated by the sound of a war horn, and the thudding of many hoof beats over their heads. There were orcish screams and the howling of wargs, and after many breathless minutes, a final silence descended.

Bilbo hardly had a moment to appreciate the fact that he wasn’t dead, and that his flesh did not decorate a warg’s vicious grin, his bones crunching, his useless little sword tossed aside. (His mother had always said that he had an overactive imagination, and that it did far more harm than good).

Dwalin broke away and strode to the back of the cave, peering into the dark. “I can’t see where it ends,” he called back to the rest. “Do we follow it?”

“Aye,” Bofur put in hurriedly. “Couldn’t hurt.”

So they pressed on through the darkened tunnels, and Bilbo only caught Gandalf’s twitching grin because he’d looked to the wizard specifically for his reaction, which gave Bilbo the distinct impression that he’d pulled off a ruse.

The Company was subdued as they made their way through the darkness, and Bilbo thought it somewhat comforting that even these brave dwarves were not so different from him that they could walk away from a brush with death without being affected. He felt strangely raw; undue sounds made him jump, and every now and then he would crane around, half expecting an orc with its blade drawn, waiting for a chance to sink in into his back.

Unconsciously, he drew closer to Bofur and his kin, noting that the three of them did not roam too far from the other, and each sported an expression of harrowed anxiety; especially Bifur, who clutched his boar spear between his hands, ready to fall on whatever threatened his kin with all the violence with which he was capable.

“Bofur,” called Bilbo, suddenly unable to bear the silence any longer.

“Aye, Mr. Bilbo?”

He thought he should thank Bofur for keeping his promise, for if he hadn’t Bilbo knew that he would have fallen behind, a meal for the wargs. Instead, he blurted out the first question that occurred to him. “When he we thought we were going to die,” he began, one hand clenching on the hilt of his sword, “what crossed your mind?”

Bofur fell silent, watching his brother and cousin round a corner, and Bilbo had never seen the dwarf as remote as he was at that moment. “I inhabited better times,” Bofur said finally, and he turned away.

\--

It was likely due to the fact that he had suffered mild head-trauma, but Bofur thought as he followed Rikke through the nearly abandoned commons that he might have wandered into the province of a dream.

He knew they were treacherous things. They were as likely to lead you to beauty as they were to plunge you into the depths of fearful, terrible places; memories that persisted long beyond their keeping point. As a general rule, he did not trust them, and yet as he watched the long coil of her hair bounce between her shoulders, he thought that perhaps this would be a good dream, and he could abide by those.

Rikke led him to the healing ward first, where she sought to check on her daughter. She was a mother – a fine one, he believed – and after all, he had told her than Riva feared on her behalf. However, when they entered her room, it turned out that the girl was largely uninterested in entertaining visitors.

“I seem to remember you fearing the dark,” said Rikke, her brow arching. “That you begged me not to leave.”

Riva gestured dismissively. “I changed my mind.”

“I wasn’t aware fear was something you could just decide not to feel,” Rikke said.

“Sure it is. Isn’t that right, Bofur?”

He held up his hands. “I’m not getting involved in this one.”

Riva huffed, shooting him a look of heavy irritation. “I’m very tired, and I want to be left alone. So please don’t worry about me.”

“Is this one of your tricks, Riva?” asked Rikke, making her voice stern.

“No! Why does everyone keep asking me that?!”

“Because everyone knows you’re quite fond of tricks, to the point of putting yourself in grave danger for the sake of your little machinations,” Rikke returned, crossing her arms over her chest in a forbidding manner.

“But you’d think I’d have learned my lesson, right?”

“You’d think,” said Rikke, not convinced.

“Well, mother, I can assure you that there is no kind of trouble that I’d be able to get into in the span of one evening, considering that I would just like to sleep.”

“I don’t know,” said Rikke, and this time Bofur caught a hint of amusement in her voice.  “You could manage something, even in your state.”

“Could I? I can’t even walk!” Riva said, indignantly gesturing to her bandaged leg.

“I can’t imagine that ever stopping you.”

Riva huffed, crossing her arms in such a perfect mirror of her mother that Bofur bit his tongue to keep from laughing. “Please just go,” she said. “I’m tired, and I won’t be able to sleep with you two looming over me.” She peered up at Bofur. “Besides, you should really get that looked at,” she said, tapping her own nose.

“Aye, probably,” said Bofur, grinning.

Rikke sighed in a long-suffering manner before leaning down and pressing a kiss onto her daughter’s brow, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she did so. “Very well. Then I will return tomorrow.”

“There’s no rush,” Riva said, fidgeting under the kiss.

“Ah ha. Go to sleep.”

Riva pulled her blankets up to her chin and waved her farewell with her good arm, but before they filed back into the hall, Bofur thought he caught a glimpse of a very self-satisfied smirk on the girl’s face, and he wondered if she was indeed still up to her clever little tricks.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he said as they passed through the commons and into one of the poorer neighborhoods. The streets themselves were empty save for a few drunks stumbling back to their homes and the night guard, who patrolled the commons and kept the peace.

“Hm?”

“Where she got her proclivity to tricks.”

Rikke let out a breath. “Certainly not from her father. He liked to think of himself as the cleverest man in his world, but he was painfully literal and slow.”

“It’s quite a reflection on his character that you’re so willing to speak poorly of him.”

“He doesn’t deserve circumspection, and I’ve never been in the practice of minding the reputation of those who don’t deserve it, regardless whether they’re alive or dead.”

He couldn’t control a cheeky grin. “Remind me never to upset you, for I don’t think I’d survive to repeat that mistake.”

“Not likely that you would upset me, unless your current affect is a trick,” she said, struggling to control and answering smile.

“Oh, no. I’m too much of a fool to be able to sustain such a long-term deception.”

“I don’t think you’re half as foolish as you pretend,” she said, peering up at him, “but I don’t think you possess the inclination for that kind of deception, either.”

“Aye, I don’t,” he told her. “My lies are the harmless sort, more often than not wrapped up in a story.”

“Then they aren’t really lies, are they?” she asked, and her gaze had become oddly penetrating, as if she could see his truths and lies written on his very bones.

She led him to a small home on the outskirts of the complex, fiddling with the lock and pushing into the darkness within. At first he hesitated over the threshold, for he’d managed to forget that she was leading him to the place where she lived, where they would be alone for the first time since he’d known her, that she was so beautiful it made his chest ache, and that he had no idea what it was she intended or what he expected, or even wanted.

But he caught sight of her eyes in the dark, lit by happiness that was still so strange to see, more precious than gold, and he followed her. He knew that he would follow her, regardless of any peril.

It was a home much like his, which mildly surprised him, but there were a few noticeable differences, mostly in the accoutrements that adorned the corners and walls.  The furniture itself was bare, but he recognized a few paintings of incredible quality – one of which depicting Aylá herself – and a few scraps of stitching that he guessed might have been Riva’s handiwork. There were a pair of glass cups on the mantle, and in the corner, he saw an incredibly fine breastplate propped against the wall, where it likely had lain untouched for many years. He knew it instantly to be Rikke’s work, and the sight of it filled his heart with pride, mingled bitterly with sorrow.

She lit a few candles and set about starting a fire, gesturing vaguely to one of the seats around the hearth. “Please,” she said.

He cleared his throat. “Can I help-?”

“Hush,” she said, smiling. “You are my guest, and I won’t have you working here.”

“Hardly work, though; starting a fire for a beautiful woman,” he said without thinking.

“You know what I mean.”

Perhaps he did. As he watched her work, though, he felt something like apprehension rise thick in his dry throat. He balled his hands into tight fists, for otherwise he knew she would see them shake. He cursed himself for his cowardice, then; it might have been easier to face a horde of orcs than sit beside her in this intimate place, where the line between want and deed had become quite thin.

Rikke filled a bowl with water and took a seat across from him, scooting her chair so closely that their knees touched. “Now. May I treat this?” she asked him, indicating his face.

“If it would please you,” he managed.

“Listen to you,” she said, dipping a clean cloth in the water and wringing it out.  “Are you afraid I’ll hurt you?”

“Oh, aye,” he said seriously. “Fear is quite comfortable for cowards.”

“Hush,” she said again. “You speak as if you don’t even know yourself. I’ve seen you face circumstances no coward would choose to, even on his best day.”

Bofur scoffed. “As if a coward never went into a mine, or got into a fight.”

“He wouldn’t choose to do those things; not if he was afraid of them.” She looked up at him. “Must this always be a point of contention?

He made to reply when she brought the damp cloth to his left eye, dabbing at the broken skin there, and he let out a hiss of pain. “You’re hardly sporting, are you?”

“’Sporting’ is a cheap concept, and you only accuse someone of being unsporting when they use every advantage to their disposal and you do not,” she said with a coy smile.

“Mahal above,” he grinned. “Calling you fierce is an unforgivable understatement.”

She said nothing to this, and instead resumed her ministrations. He appreciated the juxtaposition, that such a fierce and strong woman who would have been a smith had she the freedom to do so was capable of such tenderness in nearly equal turn. If she asked, he would easily admit to being fascinated; come to that, it was likely he’d confess it without being prompted.

His head ached dully, and though his nose had stopped bleeding well before she’d brought him to her home, it throbbed worse than he’d ever felt (and this was not the first time he’d broken his nose). And yet, the feel of her hands over his ravaged skin still managed to be lovely beyond his ability to express, which he would be the first to say was considerable.

“You’re very quiet,” she said, dabbing at his eye. “I’ve never known you to be this quiet.”

“I don’t always fill the air around me with idle words,” he admonished.

“Don’t you?”

He ignored this with what he liked to imagine was great dignity, though he was fully aware it was nearly impossible to be dignified with a broken nose and swollen face. “I was enjoying this,” he admitted softly. “Er – appreciating it.”

“Haven’t your wounds ever been cared for?”

“By my kin.” He smirked. “It’s a little different.”

She feigned ignorance. “Is it?”

“Aye,” he said, though it might have been smarter to let it lie. “They’re not as beautiful as you, and I’m fairly certain they’re not women.”

“One day someone will take your japes seriously,” she warned, though her lips twitched. She dipped the cloth in the water and wrung it out, and at that moment he was possessed by an errant thought: she had the loveliest hands he’d ever seen.

“I look forward to that day with earnest anticipation,” he told her. “Perhaps then you’ll believe me.”

“I do believe you,” she told him. “But I know that you like to exaggerate. And these two truths must be equally considered.”

“A truth exaggerated is no less true than one bluntly stated. One is simply more interesting to consider than the other.”

“That is fair,” she agreed. “Though problematic, in your hands.”

“Your faith in me never fails to astound.”

“But I do,” she said, suddenly gravely serious. “I do have faith in you.”

He was stunned – by her words, and by the depth of her eyes as she looked up at him -- and his kneejerk reaction to being stunned was to deflect with humor. “Mahal knows why.”

She surprised him by launching into an explanation, and though she kept her gaze keen on the broken skin around his eyes, he found himself trapped in that stare regardless. “You’re kind and brave,” she said, “and I’ve known enough men to know that such qualities are distressingly rare. But more than that, you are humble. I don’t have the words to tell you how astounding that is to me, for all my life I’ve only known people who have taken their slim virtues and paraded them around as if they were the keys to life. You’ve brought more happiness to my daughter than anyone else she’s ever known, and I include myself in that claim. And . . . well, you’ve brought me happiness as well, and I’ve only known you a very short while.”

“I’m glad for it,” he said softly. “I can think of no one who deserves it more.”

She continued on, as if afraid she wouldn’t be able to say everything that weighed on her heart. “You delved into a crumbling mine to save my daughter, though doing so involved confronting your greatest fear and the memory of a similar experience. You – you stood for me today, placing yourself in the path of harm and injury for my sake. I’ve never experienced such care from anyone and . . .  I don’t know. It fascinates me. You – you fascinate me.”

Bofur looked away, though these words made the world seem oddly light; an altogether bright and beautiful place. “I realized after that inserting myself might have offended you – being that you’re fierce and skilled and perfectly able to handle yourself, far better than I can handle myself, anyway. Yet all I knew at that moment was . . . I was angry! It was as if I was staring into the faces of all who have done similar things to you in your life – your husband, your kin – but this time I was here, and there was something I could do about it.”

She traced her fingers lightly over the side of his face, and he closed his eyes. “For a self-proclaimed coward, you acquit yourself rather well.”

“I was too angry to be afraid,” he admitted, knotting his hands in his lap.

“Oh, Bofur,” she breathed.

Gently as a sigh, she pressed her lips to his. And he didn’t think he would ever grow accustomed to the pleasure of this gesture; he couldn’t imagine it ever losing its thrill, its mystery, the visceral desire that coiled as if it had laid in wait, specifically for her acceptance.

But there was a question left unanswered, one he’d mulled over nearly every day for the last weeks. He drew away, though it pained him greatly to do so, worse than any wound. “Your husband,” he said. “I know that –“

“I’ve lived fifteen years paying homage to him, living as if I’d thrown myself on the pyre after him. I’d given him my loyalty though he was more my jailer than my husband. I will do so no longer.”

“You mean --?”

“Yes,” she said stoutly. “I know what it is, and what’s expected of me as a widow. I’ve decided that I don’t care.”

He took a breath for strength. “I know it’s unforgivable . . . but I’m of the same mind,” he told her, his voice a hush. “Not that it’s my place to decide. And . . . it’s selfish and wrong, but I – I don’t care. My brother saw us at the Three Stone that first night and told me exactly what it was and what couldn’t be and . . . almost immediately I decided I didn’t care. I would stay for as long as you wanted me, but I wouldn’t obey a law that had made you suffer.”

“How happy I am to hear that,” she breathed. But before he could kiss her again, she drew away. At his questioning look, she smiled. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about your nose.”

“I’d hoped,” he muttered. “Just let it heal like this. It’ll build character.”

“You’ve been so brave up to this point,” she teased him gently. “Don’t falter now.”

“I’m a coward, remember?” But he submitted to her ministrations with no more protest.

She smiled, tracing the angle of his nose. “Perhaps you could tell me a story while I work.”

“I wouldn’t want to distract you,” he said uneasily.

“I won’t be distracted,” she said, and she kissed his cheek. “But you will. Indulge me.”

“Well, how can I deny such a request, and from such a lovely woman?”

“You can’t,” she said with a laugh, and he marveled at the sound of it, for he almost hadn’t dared to hope that this grim and lovely woman he’d met all those weeks ago was capable of such a sound, and yet he found it among the most beautiful things he’d ever known.

A hiss of pain escaped between his teeth as she resumed her treatment, and he tried not to think of the broken bone or the blood or anything but the vague potential of a story that danced just at the edge of his tongue, waiting to be shaped and released.

“Once, there was a man whose feet had never touched the ground, who decided one day to climb a mountain. He’d heard tell of a great beauty that lived at the highest peak, and he much desired to look on her before he died,” he said softly.

“So this is a love story,” she said, unable to keep from smiling. “Seems as if all the stories you tell are love stories.”

“Your daughter accused me of something similar,” he said with a grin.

“Did she? And what did you tell her?”

“That all stories worth telling are love stories.”

“Indeed,” she said, her fingers trailing lightly over his cheekbone.

“My lady, you distract me,” he admonished, though he leaned into her touch. “May I continue?”

“Forgive me; I can’t seem to resist.” She pursed her lips. “Why had this man’s feet never touched the ground?”

“I haven’t decided,” he mused. “Perhaps he was a rich lord, and he had legions of servants who bore him from place to place at his slightest whim. Perhaps he’d been sickly all his life, and out of prudence he stayed inside, away from dangerous things like mountains and adventures and great beauties.”

“Perhaps he was simply afraid,” Rikke put in softly.

“Aye, I like the sound of that,” Bofur said, tried not to wince as she prodded his aching nose, lathering it with a stringent salve. “He was afraid; a coward of the worst sort. Maybe a bit of a blatherskite too. Much like most cowards, he was fond of distracting those around him to keep them from noticing his many deficiencies, and for a long time he made a living of it. For a long time, he kept himself safe from everything he saw that conspired to wound.

“But one day, he caught sight of the mountain, and his curiosity was piqued. He came upon an old man who claimed to have summited the peak in his youth, where he had seen the most beautiful woman ever to live. He spoke of her sunset colored hair the way some men speak of their faith, and said that her eyes were more beautiful than all the gold and precious stones of the world. The tender-foot man was intrigued, though intrigued is rather a pale word for it. Enflamed is better; he was enflamed by the desire to see this beauty with this own eyes, as he was hounded by the suspicion that there was more to life than his tender-footed ways allowed him.

“So he packed all the provisions he thought he’d need and sold his home. He left behind every piece of his former life and set to climbing the mountain, for he would not rest until he’d ascended to the highest peak and found this lady who had so charmed him with little more than a mention.”

“I can’t imagine the journey was easy for a man who’d never touched the ground,” Rikke said softly as she worked.

“Aye, it was not. He was lashed by terrible storms – rains as fierce as a hail of daggers sunk into his back, and snow that froze the breath in his lungs, before he’d even had a chance to exhale. He was scorched by sun and whipped by vicious winds. His hands were chewed by the unforgiving rock, and his tender feet were made mulch by the climb. And at times, he was sorely tempted to go back the way he’d come and forget that he’d ever been possessed by so foolish a notion as his quest. But there was a part of him that knew – the same part that had inspired him to undertake this impossible crusade – that if he gave it up now, he would die a withered old thorn, hardened by regret. And as foolish and cowardly and tender-footed as he was, even he knew that was no way to live.

“After many months of climbing, he finally made it to the peak. He was half dead, weathered by suffering and trial, and he couldn’t have expected what waited for him there.

“There was no woman, right?” Rikke said, arching her brow. “The ‘great beauty’ was just the sunset from that great height.”

“No, she was a real woman,” Bofur said, amused. “She was as beautiful as the old man had said, but cold and grim in equal measure. She resented having her mountain sanctuary violated in such a way by gawping men eager to look at her. She’d grown tired of their empty words, their vain declarations of adoration. She’d drawn her sword with the intent of dispatching this foolish tender-foot when he spoke. ‘I have no expectation of you,’ he told her. ‘Only that I have forsaken my nature as a coward and tender-foot to look upon you, and now that I have done so, I give my life to you.’

“’I’ve no desire for your life,’ said the woman of the mountain.  ‘I desire peace and silence, and the wilderness gives me both.’

“’Then let me live as you do,’ he said without desire or expectation. In him was the steadiness of certainty – that had had given up his life to climb this mountain and meet this woman, the most beautiful he’d ever seen in his life --and in it he saw things as the must be. There was no conflict in him, or fear. He’d been freed by the struggle, and because of this, the woman of the mountain was intrigued.” Bofur trained off, smiling a little. “For her, intrigued was not too weak a word, for her interest in him was a guarded thing. So she inclined her head slightly by way of giving her consent, for she was mightily proud – far too proud to agree to such a thing aloud.

“And thus began their long lives, living side by side but never together. She was guarded and fierce, and she preferred her solitude, but every sixteen days she would allow him to come to her home and share a meal. They would eat in silence, and after they would watch the sun dip below the horizon side by side before she would retreat again. So it went for many long years, but with each meal she offered him slightly more than she had before. Never did he demand, for it was more than he had a right to expect to share her company.

“Many years later, he had grown old and weak – withered by the long years on the mountain. When he did not come for their meal, the woman of the mountain came to him for the first time since he’d intruded on her life of solitude, and she found him only minutes away from death. And in the years that they’d shared their peak, she’d come to expect him, to allow him, perhaps even to need him. She pressed his withered hand between hers and wept.

“’Why do you weep?’ asked the tender-footed man.

“’Because you are dying, and I cannot save you,’ said the woman of the mountain. ‘I tolerated you, and then I accepted you. And now I realize that I loved you in the only way I knew how to love, but not in the way that you deserved. And I will have lost you without returning what you gave so readily. You will die, and it will be for nothing.’

“He struggled to speak, for he was nearly sapped of his strength, hovering as he was at the precipice of death. ‘It was not for nothing,’ he told her, and she leaned down until his lips were at her ear, for his voice was hardly above a whisper. ‘Before I climbed the mountain, I did not live at all – my feet never touched the ground, and I lived in fear of the world and the ways of it. When I met you, my life began. And I can say to you truly that you have healed me, when nothing else would have.’

“’If I was able to heal you, then you wouldn’t die,’ she said desperately.

“‘But that isn’t the way of things,’ he told her. ‘And because you love me, I won’t die, not in the way you believe.’

“She didn’t believe him, but she remained by his side until he had breathed his last, and then she bore his body out to the summit, where she lit a pyre and scattered his ashes. And that is when the woman of the mountain heard his voice on the wind, speaking as clearly as if he stood right at her side. And thus they remained for all the ages of the earth, for you’re not likely to find the mountain separated from the wind that veils its peaks, always strongest at the summit where they had shared the mortal years of their lives together.”

He hadn’t noticed that Rikke had finished her ministrations long ago, so transfixed had he been by her gaze as she listened to his story, and now that it had ended he felt oddly bereft. But she smiled and shook her head, slightly bewildered. “Do you make these up as you go?” she asked of him.

“That one I did,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “If it’s not as good as the others –“

“I thought it was beautiful,” she said. “I think all your stories are beautiful.”

“You are kind.”

“I am honest,” she told him, taking his hand. “I . . . I feel like both the woman of the mountain and the tender-footed man. Before I’d met you, I don’t think my feet had ever touched the ground.” She cleared her throat, as if embarrassed by the comparison, though at the moment he found it so poignant that he couldn’t speak. “Anyway, I’ve finished. How do you feel?”

He touched his sore face, his tender nose, yet at that moment he felt no pain – only an odd, breathless thrill that despite his obvious flaws and failures she had brought him here and had taken his hand and touched his face, that she had cared for him, that it persisted beyond this strange moment and his story, and that he could count on her presence in his life for many moments beyond.  “You have healed me,” he told her quietly.

When she brought her hands to his face and kissed him, it was not hesitant or tender, but as fierce as she was. And he would remember that kiss as the true beginning.

 

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

_Interlude I – A dream_

The Company of Thorin Oakenshield slipped through the caves that ran beneath the Lone Lands, and the trek took many hours, so that when they finally caught a glimpse of daylight on the other end, Bilbo felt as if they had traversed the world entire. His bones ached, and his heart was weary, for he had looked into the face of death, and found it not at all to his liking. Each breath he took seemed especially sweet, and the sound of rushing water in the distance was rather like music.

Though as they drew closer to the light, Bilbo realized that the sound _was_  music, just barely audible over the waterfall. He’d never heard such a sound in all his life – lilting like leaves on the wind, ethereal as a dream. Hobbits are lovers of song and dance, and so Bilbo was no stranger to a good ballad, and yet the sound of these voices seemed to him to be beyond the province of this world.

As the dwarves passed out of the cave and into the light, Bilbo realized that the singers were elves, and that the refuge Gandalf had led them to was the valley of Imladris, or Rivendell, and over the rushing falls and sweeping plains of rock was the Last Homely House of Elrond. Bilbo knew this place, though he’d never seen it with his own eyes, for in his juvenile fascination with the elves, he had feverishly studied every record he could. Now that he stood before it, however, he saw how flimsy the construct of his imagination had been compared to the unspeakably beautiful reality of Rivendell.

A dream, thought Bilbo. This place had been forged out of a dream.

The dwarves, however, were less impressed, and Thorin looked as if he’d dearly like to pack up and go back the way they came. “I told you that I would not accept aid from the elves,” he hissed, drawing close to Gandalf. “I should have known you would lead us into the arms of our enemies.”

“These elves are not your enemies, and the only ill will to be found here is that which you bring yourself,” Gandalf retorted. “We are tired and wounded, and in need of rest, and in the possession of a map that we cannot read. Elrond will provide you aid on all accounts.”

“They will not condone our quest,” Thorin said. “And I will not abide their interference, not when we have come so far.”

“There is still much to do, Thorin Oakenshield, and many more paths to tread. I might remind you that our journey will be for nothing if we do not decipher your map, and Elrond will be able to do so easily.” Gandalf let out a breath. “I ask that you trust me in this.”

Thorin was obviously not pleased with the prospect of doing so, but with a minute sigh he inclined his head in a gesture of grudging allowance, and in that matter things were decided. The Company traversed the craggy paths toward Rivendell, some of them muttering amongst themselves about the untrustworthiness of elves, and how likely it was that this would prove to be yet another obstacle to be overcome.

As was to be expected by this point, Bofur handled their change in fortune much as he handled everything; with an expression of wry interest. Bilbo found it notable that he was nearly alone among the dwarves in this, for the rest of them did not seem capable of putting aside their grudge against the elves long enough to appreciate Rivendell for all its obvious beauty, and the potential of a night of rest that did not involve sleeping in the dirt.

“You seem agreeable,” Bilbo said to Bofur. “Considering we’re walking into the den of your enemies.”

“They’re not my enemies,” Bofur said, shrugging. “They’re not my friends either. I’ll reserve judgment, and react accordingly after they’ve shown themselves for either.”

“That’s surprisingly fair handed, for a dwarf,”  Bilbo muttered.

“For a dwarf? I might be inclined to take offense to that, you know.”

“You can’t tell me that your kin are fair handed,” Bilbo said incredulously, gesturing to the muttering dwarves in front of them. “When the leader of them all reacts as if taking refuge among the elves is a betrayal of his principles, and a transgression of the worst sort.”

“Aye, maybe they’re not,” said Bofur. “But you remember the story I told you, of Smaug and Thranduil, and many long years of wandering exile, yes? For them, those long years are as fresh and painful as if they live them still, and to their eyes, an elf is an elf, and they hold within them the same ability for that kind of betrayal as Thranduil.”

“As if all elves are the same,” said Bilbo.

“Likely they’re not,” Bofur agreed. “Just as I’m certain not all dwarves are as prejudicial as you obviously believe.”

He’d been caught. Grudgingly, Bilbo made a gesture of defeat. “I suppose you’re right. I know of at least one who gives the lot of them a good name.”

“Aye, our leader is something of an inspiration, isn’t he?” Bofur said, grinning.

Bilbo scowled. “I was talking about –“

“Oh, I know. Come on, Mr. Bilbo. You look as if you could do with a rest.”

Bilbo decided not to mention that Bofur looked rather in need of a rest himself; beneath his usual bright countenance was deep exhaustion, and a distant quality to his eyes that gave Bilbo the feeling that he thought of better times and happier places, just as he had admitted earlier. Bilbo’s own desire for rest aside, he knew that Bofur could do with a few evenings to rest his weary bones, and should the dwarf resist in the interest of being selfless, Bilbo would be forced to insist.

The Company approached Rivendell warily save for Bilbo, who drank in the sight of the graceful architecture and verdant valleys with hungry eyes. No one in the Shire would believe he’d seen such a thing with his own eyes, which were given to fault and taken by exaggeration far more than most. He could scarcely believe it himself, and only when he reached out his hand to touch the sturdy base of an elven statue did Rivendell begin to take the startlingly feel of realism, no longer the swirling ether of a dream.

\--

That evening, the Company feasted as honored guests of Lord Elrond. As the last weeks Bilbo had grown accustomed to the unsatisfying fare of travelers, their supper was more heavenly than it might have been under normal circumstances. As wonderful as the fare was, however, Bilbo could not eat as unselfconsciously as might have been normal for a hobbit. Instead, he watched the head of their table, where Elrond and Gandalf conferred in low voices, and where Thorin watched the proceedings from under a heavy glare of disapproval.

Bilbo was tempted to pity the dwarven king at that moment. Thorin was mightily proud, skilled and sure, and a fine leader, and yet here in this place he had been reduced to tight silence, waiting for the moment when his uneasy ally learned of his quest and made to put a stop to it. There were many reasons for doing so, all of which could be done under the best intentions, and Bilbo knew that Thorin would not abide by any of them. It was dwarf business, and not the province of the fair folk.

In the end, Bilbo left half his plate uneaten, electing instead to slip away from the party as silently and unobtrusively as possible. He was curious of Rivendell, and he suspected he would not have another chance to explore in this lifetime. So he wandered the bright, graceful halls of the Last Homely House, trailing his fingers over whatever surface he could find, as if to leave a small impression of himself in the wood and stone.

He made a fair attempt to go unseen by the elves, but they did not seem to pay him any mind, and so he was allowed to continue his exploration unimpeded. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that the elves of Rivendell did not often receive guests, and they were as curious about him as he was of them. Though he quickly decided that was foolish; these were the immortal elves, and it wasn’t likely they were curious about anything, not after centuries of life among the short-lived races.

He found them quite sad, in a way that he couldn’t accurately describe. Perhaps it had to do with their long lives, and that they were condemned to watch everything die around them. Should he be cursed with a similar fate, he would become insular and removed as well. Not that the elves were intentionally rude, but he rather got the feeling that when they looked on him, they saw a fleeting shadow that left prints in the ground; only drawing breath for a brief while before passing on.

Bilbo’s wanderings led him to a room infused with reverence he did not fully understand, for at first glance it was rather average – or as average as anything wrought by the elves could be. On a pedestal lay the fragments of a sword, and they caught the dying sunlight that streamed in through the high windows. But it gave Bilbo the odd feeling as if he had intruded on a tomb, that this was a place of honor and remembrance, and that he had no business here.

But his curiosity got the better of him. He crept closer to the pedestal until he stood just before the fragments of the sword, and he reached out to touch the polished blade with one shaking hand, unable to contain the desire to do so, the suspicion that the blade would be more like flesh than steel impossible to shake away.

A sound at the doorway startled him so badly that when he recoiled his hand drew over the sharpened edge, and he let out a muffled cry of pain, clutching his freely bleeding hand to his chest. For some reason, he expected the intruder to be Bofur, so when he saw Thorin standing over the threshold, his surprise rendered him speechless for a few seconds too long.

“Thorin!” Bilbo finally squeaked. “I – you startled me!”

Thorin’s expression was unreadable. “You’ve cut yourself,” he said.

“No I haven’t. I – I mean, it’s nothing. Just a scratch.”

“It’s bleeding heavily for a scratch,” Thorin said, brows low over dark eyes.

Bilbo bit back an irrational wave of irritation, and it took a concentrated effort for him not to lash out at Thorin with something ill-conceived and biting, perhaps a reminder that if Thorin hadn’t been lurking out of sight like a criminal, he wouldn’t have startled Bilbo badly enough that he cut his hand on the shards of the blade.

Bilbo groped through his pockets for the rag that Bofur had given him that first day, the better to staunch the bleeding, letting out a wordless hiss of frustration when he couldn’t find it. His heart nearly jumped out of his chest when he saw Thorin cross the room and produce a dark cloth from one of his pockets, holding it out wordlessly for Bilbo to take.

“Ah – thank you,” said Bilbo, hastily bandaging his hand and swallowing thickly. “I – I had something, but I . . . well. Thank you.”

Thorin did not acknowledge Bilbo’s thanks.  “You find the domain of these elves fascinating,” he said, his tone less an accusation and more an observation, watching Bilbo with inscrutable eyes.

“I . . . suppose I do? I’ve never seen anything like this place,” Bilbo said, “I’ve never seen anything like anything that we’ve seen so far, come to that.”

“You’ve lived a life more insular than even the elves,” said Thorin. “I should be glad of your willingness to aid, considering.”

“’Should be’,” Bilbo echoed. “But aren’t.”

Thorin did not acknowledge this, though Bilbo thought that the corners of his lips turned upward ever so slightly. “I will have to ask you how the glory of Erebor compares to this,” he said, gesturing around as if to indicate the whole of Rivendell.

“Will there be any comparison?” asked Bilbo. “I imagine your home occupies a larger place in your esteem than even the finest dwellings of the elves.”

“You would not be wrong in imagining so,” said Thorin. “I have not seen my home in many long years, and yet I see in my memory as clearly as if I’d only just left moments ago, and had a mind to return within the span of a day. And it is far more glorious than anything the elves could dream of.”

Bilbo swallowed again. “I look forward to seeing it with my own eyes. If it’s anything like Bofur’s stories, I imagine I won’t ever see anything of its ilk in all my life.”

“Likely you won’t,” said Thorin.

Bilbo wondered with some irritation if Thorin was only able to speak of the lost glory of his home. He’d never experienced an obsession himself, not like what had consumed Thorin so totally that the dwarf’s thoughts always seemed to dwell with the home he lost and the betrayal of the elven king Thranduil. His irritation with this fact made him bold. “You speak of the elves with obvious disdain, and yet you’ve slipped away from the rest of your kin to explore Rivendell just as I have.”

“Like you, Mr. Baggins, I was curious,” Thorin said. “I won’t return to such a place, not under my own power, and so it seems that this will be my only opportunity to see the halls of my enemy.”

“Your enemy,” Bilbo echoed bitterly. “You’d think I might have noticed if Elrond drew a blade on you, or barred you from your quest. I may be dense, but I’m not nearly that dense.”

Thorin’s brows shot up into his hairline, and Bilbo realized with dismay that he’d grown so accustomed to Bofur’s easy acceptance of his smart mouth, and not every dwarf would be so forgiving, especially not Thorin, wayward King under the Mountain. But to Bilbo’s unending surprise, Thorin let out a sound that might have been laughter had it come from a different man. “You have a temper, don’t you?”

“I must, if you’ve made a note of it,” Bilbo said before he could stop himself.

“You think my feelings toward the elves are no better than a grudge,” Thorin said, crossing his  arms over his stout chest.

“I have no thoughts on the matter,” Bilbo hedged.

“I expect that you do, and only don’t wish to offend me.” Thorin’s brow twitched. “Or you fear my reaction.”

Bilbo knew logically that Thorin was attempting to goad him into speaking, but it did not change the fact that he felt his temper rise again, and he could no longer bite it back. “Thranduil betrayed you, this I understand. Elrond has not, and therefore should not be counted as the same. Would you like your own worth to be judged by the transgressions of another, only because you were the same race?”

“But we are as our races,” Thorin said. “I don’t expect that you would understand.”

“I don’t expect that I would, when that is all you’ll say on the matter,” Bilbo said before forcing himself to remain silent. At this rate, Thorin would send him back to Shire without another word, and despite how irritating the dwarf was being, Bilbo found the prospect of being dismissed as horrible.

But instead of reacting with his customary temper, Thorin gazed at Bilbo in a searching manner, as if Bilbo himself was a question posed, and Thorin was searching for the answer. Finally, he spoke: “Before I left the feast, I was informed by Gandalf that Elrond wished to speak to me regarding my purpose here. Perhaps you could accompany me, and together we might see the famed equanimity of the elves for ourselves.”

It was more a challenge than an invitation, for Bilbo saw that Thorin was certain he’d be proved right in the span of the evening. And yet Bilbo could not resist the challenge, for he knew that Thorin thought him naïve and cowardly, and he wouldn’t turn up his nose at any chance to prove differently. “I would like that,” said Bilbo with as much dignity as he could manage with an awkwardly bandaged hand stuffed in his coat pocket.

He realized belatedly that this was the first time he and Thorin had spoken alone, and that by itself was enough to give the turn of events the odd, ephemeral qualities of a dream.

\--

Night descended over Rivendell, but despite his exhaustion and the implacable soreness of his legs, sleep eluded Bofur. To calm himself, he whittled a block of wood he’d salvaged from a table Bifur had destroyed earlier into the vague shape of a troll, grimacing stupidly up at the world.

She’d told him otherwise, but he thought with a smile that perhaps Riva would like to hear of the time he’d almost been cooked over a fire and devoured by a trio of mountain trolls. After some consideration, he decided he would omit their flight from the wargs, as that was less like a farce and more an actual moment of terror.

When the carving was done, he set it aside and reclined on his bedroll, cradling his head and watching the stars through the high windows. His disquiet was not a recent development, for he was restless most nights. If he was lucky, he’d manage to pull a few hours here and there from the bone weary exhaustion the trek afforded him, but he hadn’t slept a full night since the last night he’d spent in Ered Luin, entwined, struggling. If he thought too long of that night, his resolve would waver, and it would be all he could do to remain with the Company, when more than anything he wanted to take the trail back west, to where he’d left his heart.

He knew he couldn’t, for that path was closed to him. But still he wished.

There were five months of memories that he saved for moments like earlier, when he was moments away from death, when the decision to embark on this quest for the Lonely Mountain seemed like a farce itself. For there had been five months of happiness between he and Rikke, and any single day of those memories was more precious to Bofur than all the gold in the world.

But as he drifted, he thought of the first – without his wanting to, as if it had been summoned by need and not choice. And even veiled by distance and the fallibility of his memory, it was as clear as a glass, as the sky above him, and he was tempted to live in that recollection, more like a dream than any other.

_From the moment they decided to ignore the conventions that would have kept them apart, Bofur had the implacable feeling of plummeting from a great height. There was a sense of inertia to this, now; a sense of inevitability._

_But still, he was considerate. He kept control over himself, as much as he was able, for there was a part of him still that was a coward, and a part of him that didn’t trust the permanence of this. He would catch sight of her out of the corner of his eye at times, and wonder if she was solid and real or merely the workings of his overactive imagination, so easily dispelled by the harsh light of day. But then she would touch his face and brings her lips to his, and he’d know that not even his imagination could not summon the sweet warmth of her._

_They decided to be discrete, though it would have been more natural to scream the truth of this from the highest peak of the Blue Mountains themselves. They decided to act as if nothing has changed, though in reality he could hardly remember what he was like before she came into his life. They devised schedules with the dual purpose of eking out time to meet and keeping out of the notice of their neighbors, who loved to gossip. They were careful, when really he wanted to be careless. They were circumspect, when he wanted to weave this story into a song and sing it all his days._

_Later, when the glow had faded, he realized he had been completely obnoxious. But then, they were drunk on each other._

_He was about to leave her home one night when she caught his hand, framing it between hers.  “Will you stay with me tonight?” she asked him, as if it was a simple thing._

_He was too dumbstruck to do anything but nod._

_He’d wanted to, almost from the moment they’d begun this odd dance, and yet he’d never been able to properly find the words without feeling boorish and cheap for even thinking them. But he knew that she wasn’t made of glass, and that she did not inhabit an untouchable place, a figment of a noble story, more a construct than a woman. She grew warm when he kissed her, and he could almost feel the quickening of her heart from the touch of her hands._

_“Give me a moment,” she breathed, pressing a kiss to the side of his head before slipping into Riva’s room, presumably to check that her daughter was deeply asleep, and he was left alone, staring at his upturned hands. His filthy, upturned hands, embedded with many years’ worth of dirt and filth from the mines. And suddenly the thought of touching her bare skin with such hands filled him with an odd kind of panic, as if he feared she would look at them and turn him away._

_He rummaged around the room for the washbasin before plunging his hands into the freezing water, scrubbing so hard that his skin quickly grew raw and broken, and yet still the dirt clung to the spaces between his nails, embedded deep in the callouses almost as old as he was. He gritted his teeth and scrubbed harder, sloshing water over the side of the basin in his desperate attempt to be worthy-_

_And that was how she found him, hunched over the basin and scrubbing madly, like a man possessed. She bit her lip and rushed forward, taking his hands in hers. “Look what you’ve done,” she admonished softly, running one finger over the raw skin of his hands._

_He struggled for an explanation. “I thought – my hands are -- I mean, from the mines and all, and . . . I just thought –“_

_“Oh, Bofur,” she sighed, but it was a gentle thing._

_“I am a fool, after all,” he reminded her._

_She laughed softly, holding his ravaged hands close. “If you are a fool, then you are a tender one.”_

_He thought he’d known enough, when considering this from the safe vantage point of abstraction, but now that she was before him, as solid and real as he’d ever known, he was suspended by the sense that he knew nothing, and had nothing, and was nothing, until he feared he’d be torn apart by the force of his desire juxtaposed with the weight of his anxiety._

_But she took his hands and placed them on either side of her face, and in that moment he forgot everything else. He kissed her as he never had before, for always there had been one last shred of reservation when he touched her, attempting to be mindful of the unwieldy shape of what he desired and what he wasn’t sure she could reciprocate. Those doubts removed, he kissed her as he’d always wanted to._

_When he reached for his belt, though, she caught his hands. “Let me,” she said, so softly that he might have imagined it._

_It was a dwarven tradition – to undress your wife, and have her undress you. It spoke of respect, and of worship. Between any others, it might have spoken of ownership, but Bofur chose not to see it that way, not in the sense that was typical. If there was ownership between him and Rikke, it was that they belonged to each other equally. And so he took his hands away and allowed her to undress him, swallowing the lump in his throat._

_Her fingers were quick and clever, and she’d made it past the outercoat and tunic when he heard a growl of frustration come from between her teeth. “You have so many layers,” she whispered._

_“It’s cold in the mine!” he said, defensive._

_“How many coats do you wear, anyway?”_

_“Just the one, smart mouth.”_

_She peered up at him, pushing the last tunic away before kneeling, her fingers tucking under the waist of his trousers, playing with the clasp, pressing against painfully bare skin. It became difficult to breathe, then, and he focused on the soft crown of her head as she worked, resisting the urge to take her, hands pressed into skin, gripping too hard but altogether unable to bring himself back._

_When he stood bare before her, she gently lifted the hat off his head and pulled at the bindings of his braids, combing them out slowly with her fingers until his hair hung loose around his face. Her color was high, and he felt her hands trembling over his skin, as if unwilling to bring them away now that her task was done. He shivered, but not from the cold._

_He cleared his throat. “May I?”_

_She nodded. “It ought to be easier for you than for me,” she said, biting her lip against a grin. “I don’t dress myself in every piece of clothing I own.”_

_“I’m amazed you can resist the temptation.”_

_She said nothing as she spun, though he felt her laugh as he pulled at the laces of her dress. He was reverent and slow as he worked, relishing each inch of bare skin that he uncovered. And he proved to have less control than she did, for she’d been able to undress him without touching him otherwise, but as he pushed her dress down, he could not keep himself from pressing his lips into the skin at her neck, tracing down to her shoulder blade, his fingers trailing up the curve of her spine, reversing, spreading over her ribs, her breasts. She shivered under his lips, a soft sound at the back of her throat, and he thought he would never hear such a sound in his life._

_Last, he pulled at the binding in her hair, until it cascaded down her back like an auburn waterfall. He thought as he buried his hands into it, admiring the color as it caught the bright light of the fire, that he’d never seen anything so beautiful as her in all his life._

_And from that moment onward, there was very little that occurred to him beyond the feel of her pressed against him, the feel of her hands coiled in his hair, pulling him closer, as if she could not bear the pain of being separate. He held her trembling in his arms, the light from the fire casting long shadows over the pale expanse of her body, and pressed his lips to the hollow at her throat, savoring the thrilling pulse there. “I won’t hurt you,” he promised breathlessly, burying his face in her long, sweet hair. “I would never hurt you.”_

_“I know,” she breathed. She kissed him again, so fiercely that he knew in the light of the next day the world would be able to see the evidence of her kiss plain as the features on his face, like she’d cast impressions in sand. There they remained all the night long, entwined as if they’d waited all their lives to be joined, and only an act of violence would render them separate._

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

That night, Bilbo slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep, and when he woke the next morning to the sight of golden light dappling the floor beside his bed, he wondered at first if he was still dreaming, or if perhaps he had indeed died, for he’d never enjoyed such a rest in all his days, not even snug in his bed at Bag End. Just at the edge of hearing he could discern a lilting song, accompanied by strains of gentle harp and flute. The morning air was pleasantly cool, the kind that hints at a warm afternoon of sunshine and a fair breeze.

He was just as enchanted by Rivendell by the light of this new day as he had been the day before. He nearly forgot that he was an adventurer now, and in no time at all he would be expected to take back to the road, treading the high mountain paths and doing his honest best to keep his feet beneath him.

He found the prospect of leaving this charmed place behind him desperately sad. It was as Thorin had said the day before – it was not likely that they would see Rivendell again in their lifetimes, nor would they reside as guests as the elves in their journey east to Erebor, and though Thorin was not prone to see this as a truth worth grieving over, Bilbo would miss the peace about this place, the calm beauty.

So as he sat up in bed, he resolved to see every inch of Rivendell that he possibly could, the better to commit it permanently to his memory. He washed and dressed quickly, and in his haste he completely forgot breakfast, instead electing to wander the open grounds of Rivendell, enjoying the sunshine and the perpetual music that hung on the air, perhaps like the agreeable scent of his garden and a fine dinner.

After a few hours of taking in the sights, Bilbo nearly dropped his sketchbook when he saw the dwarf perched on one of the low walls, looking over the valley and ever eastward, tapping the bowl of his pipe to encourage the embers to life. He was surprised to see that Bofur had gotten the same idea. He looked particularly rested, for once, and Bilbo found himself smiling at the sight of it. For someone so prone to japery and jibes, he hadn't seen a real smile on Bofur's face in a long time.

“Good day,” Bilbo said, taking a seat beside Bofur and settling his sketchbook on his lap.

“Aye, it is, isn't it?” Bofur said.

“Are you enjoying the chance to rest a bit?” Bilbo asked him.

Bofur smirked. “I feel as if I might be betraying the sensibilities of my kin if I admit that I am,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I won't give you away,” Bilbo promised. “Though they could do with a rest, themselves. The lot of them, grim as undertakers.”

“I'm not sure I agree, Mr. Bilbo,” Bofur said. “You weren't there last night, were you?”

Bilbo pinched his brow. “What manner of mischief did I miss last night?”

“While you and our King conferred with Gandalf and the great Lord Elrond, the rest of us had a fine time,” Bofur said, grinning. “Pitched a campfire, told bawdy stories and sung inappropriate songs. Made entirely too much noise.”

“How many pieces of our host's furniture did you destroy, then?” Bilbo asked in a long suffering manner.

“Hardly anything,” Bofur said innocently.

“'Hardly'?”

“Well . . . a few tables. Bombur was mostly at fault, not me.”

“Why don't I believe you?”

“Because you love to believe the worst of me,” Bofur smirked. “Mahal knows why.”

“Indeed,” Bilbo sniffed. “It has nothing to do with the unfortunate fact that I've shared this experience with our current hosts. Thirteen rude dwarves invading my home and gallivanting around, destroying my belongings in their quest to make merry at the expense of others.”

“Ah, but we didn't actually break anything of yours, Mr. Bilbo,” said Bofur, tapping his nose. “We made doubly sure of that.”

“Then why not extend the same care to the elves?”

“Aye, well. I thought about it, but then I decided against it,” Bofur teased. “They live forever, you know, and they're quite rich. They can spare the time and resources to make something even better. I just provided the opportunity.”

“How kind of you,” Bilbo said, not amused.

“You know, I would have thought you'd enjoy your excursion with our great leader,” Bofur said, nearly smug. “I thought it would have improved your disposition considerably. But here, you're just as foul-tempered as usual. What a disappointment. Though,” he trailed off, looking thoughtful, “I'd say you suit each other fairly well, don't you think?”

“You're incorrigible,” Bilbo muttered. “And you're a bad influence, you know.”

“Am I? Dear me.”

“I'm very serious,” Bilbo said, crossing his arms over his chest in a peevish manner. “I've grown so accustomed to being provoked by your nonsense that I find myself expecting everyone to handle my reaction as evenly as you do.”

“Oh no,” Bofur said, choking on laughter. “Are you telling me you lost your short temper with our similarly short-tempered leader?”

“He's a very irritating person,” Bilbo muttered. “As are you.”

“Best not let him hear you talking in such a way,” Bofur said, leaning close and whispering in a conspiratorial manner. “It would break his kingly heart, and then we'd be in trouble.”

Bilbo waved this away, though secretly he was pleased. “If I might steer the subject of this conversation toward safer waters, may I ask what you're doing out here?”

“Ah, well. Just enjoying the sights,” he said, gesturing toward the valley laid out below them with his pipe. “I don't reckon I'll ever see its likeness again.”

“Likely not,” Bilbo said heavily.

“Here, now; don't grieve, Mr. Bilbo,” said Bofur, clapping him on the back. “Maybe you won't ever return here, but you'll have your fond memories as long as you live. And there aren't many forces in this world that are able to take those away.”

“You're right,” Bilbo said, slightly encouraged. “No sense in moping while we're still here.”

“That's the idea,” Bofur said, and his smile became earnest.

“I have to confess that I'm surprised you feel similarly about this place,” Bilbo said. “That you care enough to commit it to memory.”

“It’s more that I've never seen anything like it,” Bofur shrugged. “And . . . well, Rikke would like to hear of it, maybe. Not that she has any love for the elves, but she is a lover of fine craftsmanship, and there is lots of that to be seen around here.”

“Like the things you destroyed,” Bilbo couldn't resist interjecting.

“It took quite a lot of effort to break them down, you know,” Bofur said, grinning again. “She'd appreciate such hardly wares.”

Bilbo was quiet for a moment, watching a flock of birds sail over the valley, gliding low on the gentle breeze, skimming over the weaving tops of the trees. “Will you tell me why you them?” he asked finally. “If it's so horrible to be apart?”

“I left _for_ them,” Bofur corrected unconsciously, and Bilbo was startled by his sudden intensity; he'd never seen such a reaction from the dwarf in the time they'd known each other.

“What do you mean?” Bilbo wondered.

But the moment had passed, just as they always did. Bofur seemed to regret speaking of them in such a forthright manner, for he arranged his features into a light expression, though the smile he affixed there did not quite reach his eyes. “Are you any use at pencils?” he asked instead.

“What?”

“At drawing?”

“Oh. Yes, I am. I mean, well enough, anyway,” Bilbo managed.

“Could I commission you to do a sketch of Rivendell for me?”

“You don't have to commission anything,” Bilbo said, slightly uncomfortable. “I could never charge you for my scribbling.”

“You don't need to show me charity. I've got some gold right here--”

“Please, put that away,” Bilbo said, fluttering his hands in agitation. “It's bad luck to accept a fee for something you'd be pleased to do for nothing.”

“Aye, if you say so,” Bofur said, but his grin had become genuine.

They lapsed into easy silence as Bilbo loosely sketched, filling in every intricate detail of the valley of Imladris that he could see. He knew that this sketch was for the benefit of Bofur's widow and her young daughter without the need for confirmation, but he wondered as he worked of the question that Bofur had left unanswered – the circumstances that had driven him into this mad quest, leaving two people he loved dearly well behind. Had he a mind to return to them? Did he wish to bring them to Erebor once the Lonely Mountain was won? The questions multiplied, and Bilbo's heart grew heavy with disquiet on Bofur's behalf.

It had been difficult enough to leave Bag End. He didn't know if he would have been able to manage traveling even a mile if he left someone he loved behind.

–

Bofur had never been much a man for routine, but over the last few months he'd found that routine made secrecy much easier to maintain. He learned the routes of the guards and the schedules of Rikke's neighbors – when they woke, when they fell asleep, what days they ventured out to market – for in doing so he was better able to sneak beneath their notice.

He'd never had the need for such deception before, but in his estimation this subterfuge was worth the trouble. He felt younger than he had in years, perhaps even younger than he had even when he was actually young. He lived for those few stolen moments, the times when they could slip away and speak without being overheard, or perhaps not speak at all.

One night some five months after they’d begun, he trudged to the Three Stone with the rest of the miners for supper and drinks, for he knew that to avoid doing so would invite suspicion. Though he was exhausted, he sat at the bar and chatted with Bombur, who had just gotten around to forgiving him for his admittedly unforgivable change, and he sang when requested and played merry tunes on his flute until his comrades sunk into a haze of drunkenness, cradling their heads in their arms, muttering sentimentally about myriad tender subjects.

He patted his pockets, searching for his pipe. It had been an especially long day in the mines; the foreman had found a promising vein of gold and worked them until he’d been satisfied with their progress, promising that they would start before dawn when they resumed the day after tomorrow. Before, he couldn’t c0mplain – he needed the money and the work was all he could manage – but these days he found he resented every minute he spent in the mine more than usual.

Bofur had been about to call for another ale when he caught sight of Ori across the room, waving so excitably that he nearly smacked another dwarf in the face. Far from being a stranger, though, this dwarf caught the boy’s hand and gently moved it out of range with tender familiarity, giving him a fond pat on the shoulder.

“Ho there, Ori,” Bofur said amicably as the pair made it to his table. “Who’s your friend?”

Ori gestured excitedly to the other dwarf, nearly smacking him in the face again. He was older than Ori, and where the lad was usually in a state of vague disarray, this man was dressed in a fine tunic and mail, his hair and beard impeccably coifed. “This is my brother, Nori,” said Ori, beaming. “He just got in. Nori, this is my good friend, Bofur.”

Bofur held out his hand to shake. “Fine to meet you, Nori,” he said.

“Likewise,” said Nori. “I’ve heard good things.”

“Well, they can’t’ve been about me, then.” Bofur grinned. “Care for a drink?”

“A drink would be fine,” Ori said, plopping down across the table from Bofur, his elder brother taking a more dignified seat beside him. “I was hoping you’d be here tonight.”

“I’m here most nights, you know,” Bofur reminded him.

“Aye, you are,” Ori agreed after a moment, picking at a loose thread in his gloves. “Being silly, then.”

“No more so than usual,” Bofur said. “What’s on your mind?”

The lad bit his lip, looking to his elder brother as if looking for confirmation, or perhaps permission to speak of whatever had worked him into such a lather. Nori nodded with a slight grin, and with that Ori turned back to Bofur, his excitable smile back on his face. “We’re going on an adventure!” he hissed excitedly, palms flat on the table.

“An adventure?” Bofur echoed, and for a moment he was stunned. He knew nothing about Nori, but Ori was something of a shut in; he vastly preferred the company of the tomes he worked with to most other people, and the thought of the shy lad taking to the open world was a bit strange.

“Aye. Nori’s joined up with an expedition, and I’m coming along,” Ori explained, taking an ale from one of the barmaids and taking an eager swig.

“What sort of expedition are we talking about, here?” Bofur wondered.

Ori leaned closer, his grin becoming nearly smug, as if he was about to impart a great secret. “Thorin Oakenshield has a mind to take back the Lonely Mountain,” he said in a virtuous hush. “We mean to help him.”

“Oh, right,” Bofur said. “I didn’t realize he’d nearly completed his preparations then.”

Ori blinked. “You knew about the quest?’

“Aye, of course.”

“Oh,” said Ori, and he looked so suddenly downtrodden that Bofur felt a wave of pity for the boy.

“I mean – it’s still news,” he put in kindly. “I’m very surprised. I may never recover.”

Grudgingly, Ori grinned. “It’s just that you always seem to know everything that’s going on.”

“I wish that were true,” Bofur laughed. “But in this case, Thorin is uncle to a pair of lads who are terrible gossips. They’d only just learned themselves before they told me a few months back.”

“Well, if you say so,” Ori allowed. “Anyway, Thorin came to Nori, told him about his plan, the risk involved, but what’s the risk when compared to the chance to see our home again, you know?”

“Our King Under the Mountain ask you for any particular reason?” Bofur asked Nori.

“Been abroad for a few years,” said Nori, taking a quiet sip of his ale. “Been around.”

“He’s a right expert with his blades,” Ori said proudly. “Only mystery is why Thorin didn’t ask sooner.”

“That’s no mystery, Ori lad,” said Nori, one brow arching. “You ask the respectable folk before you come to me.”

“You’re plenty respectable,” Ori put in stubbornly.

“I surely am not.”

“You never give yourself enough credit,” said Ori, crossing his arms over his chest in a stubborn manner.

“And you give me entirely too much credit.”

Bofur couldn’t help snorting into his ale. “Seems to me it evens out, don’t you think?”

“Ha! Maybe it does,” Nori said, grinning.

 Ori forged ahead as if neither of them had spoken. “Anyways, I figure I’m old enough to come with you, now. Not like before.”

“Before, you were hardly out of jumpers, lad,” Nori said, amused.

“I could have come with,” Ori muttered. “I wouldn’t have gotten in the way.”

Nor smirked. “At times, I got in the way, all on my own,” he said. “It was for the best that you stayed.”

“But now . . .?” Ori prompted.

Nori sighed. “But this is different. This is for our king, and as little stock as I put in such things, it’s still important. Besides,” he said, lips curling, “I don’t think you’d forgive me if I left you behind this time.”

“I certainly would not,” said Ori, beaming again. “It’s good you know that.”

“Heh.”

“So,” Ori said, turning back to Bofur. “Do you think you’d come along? If Thorin asked you?”

Bofur shrugged uneasily, casting his gaze around the bar in order to gauge how much longer the rest of the miners would remain. “I . . . probably not,” he said. “I’m not much for grand adventures and deeds of heroism and the like.”

“You’re not?” Ori asked him, and his expression crumpled into abject disappointment in nearly the blink of an eye. “I thought you’d be interested.”

“Why’s that?”

“You tell enough stories about quests and adventures, don’t you?”

“Aye, but weaving a tale about an adventure and going on one are two very different things,” Bofur said kindly. “One involves almost certain death, and one involves comfort and safety. I’m sure you could guess which a coward would choose.”

“But you’re not a coward,” Ori said, his brow furrowing.

“Sure I am.”

Ori waved this away; his scholarly nature afforded him little patience of things he perceived as untrue. “Besides, you know there’s riches in it for whoever joins, don’t you?”

“I imagined there would be. The wealth of Erebor is considerable.”

“And part of it could be yours!” Ori said, slamming his palms flat on the table with so much force that he nearly sent their mugs of ale rattling over the edge.

Bofur secured his with a smile. “You’re selling it too hard,” he said. “Come now; Thorin wouldn’t want an old coward on his grand expedition to retake his home, and neither would you.”

Ori spun his mug in his hands. “You don’t know that.”

Bofur couldn’t bear to see the lad this downtrodden, though in reality the thought of going on a quest where almost certain death at the jaws of a dragon waited was not his idea of a sound plan, not to mention he had no intention of leaving behind Rikke and Riva, not when he already had so little time to spend with them. “I won’t say no,” he assured Ori with a kind smile. “I won’t say yes, but I won’t say no.”

Ori brightened instantly. “Just think about it, is all! You could be rich, and you’d have enough money for – for . . . for whatever you wanted,” he trailed off lamely, though they both knew what he’d been about to say.

They drank and shared nearly an hour’s worth of amiable conversation before the two brothers got to their feet and headed for home, leaving Bofur to consider Ori’s last point: the prospect of a sum of gold beyond anything he’d ever had in his life.

He’d grown up poor – the eldest son of a mining family – so living without luxury was as comfortable to him as the clothes on his back, which had nearly molded to him like a second skin from the many years of wear. Yet he could not deny that the thought of securing a sizable sum of gold was an attractive one. Not for himself – he could get by well enough – but for Rikke and Riva.

He saw their poverty, and it inspired in him a futile ache. He saw the long hours Rikke worked in order to provide for herself and her daughter, though the only work available to her was desperate and dangerous. He saw the days she came home from the Crooked Hammer with mused hair and clothes from a tavern brawl that had quickly gotten out of hand. He saw the bruises that would decorate her arm in the shape of fingers, a shadow of the fiend who had threatened her only hours earlier. And he would dream of one day have enough to free her from the life that gave her so much grief.

So it would have been stupid to deny that the thought of a portion of Erebor’s riches weighing in his pockets wasn’t an attractive one. With that money, he could give her a better life – one that involved her passions, perhaps. He could finally provide for his kin as well; instead of scraping by on a miner’s salary, he could give them everything they’d given to him so easily.

To consider this quest was to consider leaving her behind. And in these last months, he’d grown to need her the way he needed sustenance and air. He’d grown selfish. But greater than his selfishness was the thought of bringing her happiness and stability, comfort beyond anything she’d known. It was a heady thought; one that he’d always believed was out of his means.

Bofur had no answers for himself, so he was therefore resigned to mulling each side of the equation as the night drew long and the candles burned to the quick.

It was late when the miners finally packed up and left for their respective homes, shambling out the door and into the darkened streets. Bombur pushed a dirty rag over the surface of the bar, jumping a little when the door slammed in its frame, fixing Bofur with a characteristically worried expression as he took in the dark circles under his elder brother's eyes. “You're not coming home, then?” he asked in a quiet voice.

“I will later,” Bofur said easily, rubbing his brow in an attempt to smooth away the exhaustion. “Just a few hours.”

“Be careful,” Bombur warned.

“Aren't I always?”

Bombur frowned. “You're never careful,” he said. “You wouldn't be doing this if you were.”

“Not this again,” Bofur sighed. “I ask that you trust me not to bring disaster down on our heads, aye? I think I can manage that much.”

“I just worry, you know that,” Bombur said uneasily.

Bofur clapped his younger brother on the shoulder, giving him a little shake. “You could stand to worry less, perhaps. You'll lose every hair on your head otherwise.”

Bombur rubbed the bare patch at the top of his head. “It's not from worry and you know it,” he muttered.

“Isn't it?”

“You're a wretch,” Bombur muttered, but a small shadow of a grin pulled at his lips. “Get on, then. Wouldn't want to keep her waiting too long.”

With a wave over his shoulder, Bofur pushed out into the commons. He kept his gait casual, for he knew that if he gave into the impulse to run straight to Rikke's home that he would attract too much attention, though at times the desire to do so grew too large to manage.

He hadn't seen her since the night before, and somehow that time seemed to stretch onward like the span of many unending years, unforgiving and bleak. It was only when he caught sight of her small home amid the others – the dirty stone, the blue painted door, etched with chipping trim – did he feel his heavy heart lift.

Bofur knocked softly, three light raps. He always feared that he wouldn't be heard over the crackling of the fire inside, but those fears vanished when the door flew open and two small hands pulled him inside. He hardly had time to shut the door behind him before Riva threw her small body into his arms, hugging him so tightly that he couldn't breathe at first, burying her face into his coat.

It was never Rikke at the door, for they had mutually decided to maintain careful distance in front of her daughter– out of respect, perhaps, or something akin to modesty. It wouldn't have mattered either way; whenever Riva caught sight of an errant touch or a surreptitious kiss between them, she could hardly keep from choking in satisfaction.

He caught a glimpse of Rikke over Riva's head; with her hands folded in front, her long auburn hair coiled down her back, looking at him as if they'd gone a thousand years since last they seen one another, and though he was tired and bone-weary, he thought she'd never seemed as beautiful as she was at that moment, and that if she allowed him, he would spend the every moment of the little time they had together at her side.

“You're late!” Riva accused him, giving him a little shake.

“And you're up late,” he said, laughing.

“I can't sleep until you tell me a story, you know that,” she said as sternly as she could manage, jamming her little hands on her hips and fixing him with a reproachful glare.

“Ha! Far be it from me to alter the natural order of things,” he teased. “Come on, then.”

Beaming, Riva threaded her small hand into his and led him to her room like a triumphant warrior bearing the spoils of battle back home. Her back was turned, so she did not see when Rikke pressed a light kiss to his cheek as he passed. She did not see Bofur's own bewildered smile, or note that his face had become quite warm as he lifted his free had to where Rikke's lips had touched.

Riva tossed aside the pillows and made a great production of settling her blankets around herself before peering up at him with an owlish, expectant gaze.

“You're getting around better,” Bofur said, pulling up a chair beside her bed. “Almost good as new, right?”

She nodded, grinning. “I can beat the boys in races again,” she boasted. “They weren't happy.”

“I should imagine not. Their days of easy victory have passed.”

“So you have a story for me,” Riva prompted, scooting eagerly until she'd nearly pitched herself off the side of the bed.

“I might indeed. Though that depends on what you'd like to hear tonight.”

Riva thought for a moment, her gaze drifting to over Bofur's shoulder, where Rikke watched from the doorway. Gesturing for her mother to leave them alone, Riva drew closer. “Tragedy,” she hissed delightedly, as if speaking of a great scandal.

“Tragedy!?”

“Aye. Your stories are too happy these days,” she accused him. “Very boring.”

“I can't say I've ever been accused of that before,” he said, rubbing his jaw as if she'd landed a blow there.

“But it's so boring when everything ends well, no matter what had happened before. I – I don't mean boring,” she amended quickly. “Predictable.”

“Aye, you've made your point,” he said. “You want tragedy? I think I have something in mind.”

He thought her attraction to tragic stories was almost sweet, in a strange way. For the last months, her life had been a parade of everything she'd wanted and worked for, and perhaps this curiosity was an odd manner of affirmation – that even though beyond the walls of her home there was misery and tragedy, here she was safe, for she had everything she needed.

Bofur cleared his throat and dropped his voice to a hush, stifling a yawn as another wave of exhaustion passed through him. “Once, there was a race of beings that drank the sunlight, and sustained themselves on the warm breeze that came in from the sea. They were crafters and shapers of the world, molding the stuff of their dreams into that which could be touched and held in the palm of your hand. Their crafts were unsurpassed in their beauty, and for many thousands of years they thrived.”

“They didn’t have to eat?” Riva wanted to know, frowning.

“Aye, they did not. They were unhindered by the trappings of mortality that we must contend with every day. They had no need for sleep or for food, so all their waking hours were spent on their crafts. You can imagine, then, that what they shaped were the closest to perfection that the world had ever seen.”

“Were they immortal, then?”

“No, not immortal. They could die, just as anyone. They could be killed.  Really, their only benefit over the lesser races of the world was that they could spend the time they saved by not having to eat or sleep with their work. Instead, the sunlight sustained them, and the rains quenched their thirst. They were a lot like a race of plants, now that I think of it.”

“Flower people,” Riva giggled.

“Aye. You’d think it would be impossible for their delicate hands to shape the hard things of the world, but it was as if the stone flowered under their hands. They were made to work, it was said, and the mastery of their crafts made them immensely proud. They looked on the lesser races of the world with barely concealed contempt, for in their minds they were the chosen of all the living creatures of the world – the finest, the most superior – and they always would be.

“There was a young sunlight drinker among then, who they had always called a fool, for he preached to his fellows that they should not alienate the other races. He insisted that a time would come when they would have need of each other, and that kindness given would be repaid. The sunlight drinkers laughed at him, and told him that if he wanted to kiss the feet of creatures little better than dogs, he was welcome to.”

Riva scowled. “They sound awful.”

“Oh, aye. It’s remarkable what pride can do to the heart, and what the lack of it can give you. The fool sunlight drinker wasn’t as much of a fool as his fellows believed him, for one day as he worked he caught a glimpse of a human woman, and far from plain and uninteresting, he found her loveliness to be beyond compare. They loved each other quite desperately, for she was similarly persecuted by her village for daring to consort with those wretched sunlight drinkers. But they found refuge in each other, though they would come to realize that every moment they shared was a stolen thing, and that it went against the fabric of the world.

“There was a calamity of the likes no one had ever seen before. The sunlight withered and died, and the land was plunged into an unending season of winter. Gone were the days of plentiful light to eat and rain to drink; instead, there was only the deep grey that veiled the sun, and snow that refused to abate. The other races of the world were hardy, and they bunkered down as they always had, but the sunlight drinkers had no other recourse. Deprived of their only form of sustenance, the dwindled until only the strongest among them had survived.”

“So they must have asked for help then,” said Riva.

“They did not. Even on the brink of extinction, they were immensely proud, and this pride was intensified by the great bitterness that they held in their hearts, for the world no longer conformed to their survival, and they would not tolerate living in such a place.

“The fool, driven by the love he felt for the simple human girl, beseeched those of his race that remained, and told them of a plan that he had devised with her aid. There was no reason for them to die one and all, and for their ways to be completely lost. The days when they could craft their beautiful things did not have to pass into dust, he said. All that their survival required was a mutual sacrifice: the sunlight drinkers must abandon their pride and learn to adapt. And the other races must learn to truly share their world.

“But both groups were furious at the thought. Incensed by the suggestion and driven mad by hunger, the sunlight drinkers led a raid on the human village that bordered their once great empire. They found the girl that the fool loved and cut her throat for daring to poison him against his own people. In retaliation, the humans crept to the ruins and burned the sunlight drinkers alive.

“Only the fool was left. They say that he never said another word for the rest of his life, yet he did not die as the rest of his kin had. After many miles of silent wandering he stood and faced the frozen coast. He dug his feet into the snow until he reached soil and lifted his hands to the grey sky, where branches that weaved in the stiff wind burst forth. Over his tender flesh grew a second, harder skin, strong enough that only the most pointed blows would be able to penetrate, and then only through effort no mortal race possessed. When the snow abated, his branches grew leaves that whispered to whoever dared draw close enough, and thus his metamorphosis was complete. As a tree he lived forever, yet every winter he shed his plentiful leaves in grief for the woman that he loved and the kin that he had lost.”

Riva watched him with wide eyes, and he realized after a moment that they had filled with tears. Before he could say anything, though, she hastily wiped them away with the back of her hand. “Thank you,” she said in a small voice.

“Was it too tragic, then?” he asked.

“No, of course not,” she insisted. “Just . . . he had to live forever, all alone. It would have been better if he died too.”

“You asked me for tragedy,” he reminded her gently. “What could be more tragic than being separated from the one you love forever?”

“Next time I want a happy story,” she mumbled.

“I’m fairly good at those,” he said, grinning. He got to his feet and bent over her bed, sweeping her hair off her brow and pressing a kiss there. “Go to sleep.”

“Goodnight Bofur,” she said, pulling her covers up to her chin, and he saw her lips curve upward in a pleased smile, though she rubbed at the place he’d kissed her as if embarrassed by the attention. He hadn’t noticed Rikke enter the room, but she knelt beside him and drew her daughter into her arms, and as he left he could hear the two of them speaking quietly, two voices he had come to love beyond words.

He waited outside and let his head thunk against the wall, stifling another yawn through great effort. This last week in particular had been a difficult one, and if he’d taken the time to count the hours he’d managed to sleep, he’d have been dismayed at the paltry sum of them. Yet when Rikke left Riva’s room and pulled the door shut behind her, he felt as if he’d never need a full night of sleep again.

She reached for him first – even now, after all these nights they’d spent together, he gave her the benefit of initiation, for he’d never grown accustomed to the fact that her want for him was a steady thing; he was always anticipating the day when this dream would end. Her hands twined around his neck and he felt a shiver rise there, drawing her closer so that they were only separate by virtue of the clothes they wore.

“I missed you,” she breathed, pressing her lips to his neck.

He was rendered speechless by the gesture, and only managed an incoherent “Mm,” in response.

“Are you tired?” she asked, her hands curling as they slid lower, until she grasped him tightly by the shoulders. “You look tired.”

“I’m not,” he assured her, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.

“You have circles under your eyes.”

“Those have always been there.”

Her lips twitched against a grin. “Are you sure? You’re not tired?”

He looked down at her; her eyes bright, cheeks flush with color, the smooth white column of her neck, her hands holding him ever closer, and at that moment he doubted the need for sleep, for what use was it when compared to Rikke and her hands, her lips, the words she offered him that burrowed deeply, beyond the province of skin?

“Not at all,” he said, and they did not speak again for a long while.


	16. Chapter 16

On their first night in Rivendell, the dwarves had carried on in a manner that managed to be nearly smug, for Bilbo knew they were pleased to have found themselves alive after their ordeal from only hours before, but on this night, they fell into preoccupied silence. Bilbo watched a handful of them quietly pack up their bedrolls even though night had fallen, and instead of falling asleep they hovered in wait, watching the fat moon low in the sky.

It was as if they had known of their leader’s intent, so that Bilbo wondered if Thorin had told them all to prepare for departure. It didn’t surprise him that no one bothered to mention any of this to him, for he’d come to expect being overlooked in such a manner, even by Bofur, who made a sincere attempt to include him in their goings-on.

After a few hours of waiting, Bilbo could take the suspense no longer. He sought out Bofur and found the dwarf with his kin, sitting back to back with Bombur and whittling something in the shape of an elven warrior astride a fine horse, bow aimed with fierce precision at some point over his shoulder.

“Why isn’t anyone asleep?” Bilbo asked, and he resisted the urge to jam his hands on his hips.

“They’re not tired, I expect,” Bofur said easily. “Aren’t you?”

“What’s the real answer?”

Bofur grinned, flicking away a shaving. “We’re waiting.”

“Just what are we waiting for?” Bilbo asked him, swallowing the sour note in his voice; he’d very much looked forward to another full night of sleep, but sleep was impossible with the whole Company hovering around as they were.

“For midnight,” Bofur teased. “They say at midnight, spirits of mischief awake in the valley below us, and we’re all very interested to see if such a thing is true. You could imagine a mischievous spirit might be of some use, at least as amusement. ”

Bilbo was not pleased. “What nonsense.”

For his part, Bofur let out a sigh, though he grinned when Bombur threw his elbow into his ribs. “Come on, Mr. Bilbo. Have a seat and try to relax.”

Muttering grudgingly, Bilbo complied, pulling his pack onto his lap and hugging it to his chest, resting his chin atop it.

“Now, to answer your question as seriously as you prefer, I believe we’re going to resume our trek tonight. Our fine leader has an odd feeling, and as members of his Company we leap to obey his odd feelings.”

“Is that so?” Bilbo said, frowning. “Odd how?”

“I don’t presume to know the mind of our King,” Bofur said airily, flicking Bilbo with another shaving. “But I imagine he’s suspicious of the elves, and earlier this evening he saw a single rider approach Rivendell, with a bearing very similar to Gandalf’s.”

“Was it Radagast, perhaps?” Bilbo wondered aloud.

“Thorin did not recognize this rider,” Bofur said. “Though he seemed to think him stern and forbidding, from what I gathered earlier.”

“He thinks the elves will keep us here,” Bilbo said in a sudden flash of insight.

“It’s likely,” Bofur said. “Either way, now we wait for his word.”

And so they did. When a handful of elves came to check on them, they found the Company of Thorin Oakenshield making half-hearted motions toward resting, pounding their packs into more agreeable shapes under their heads, some of them snoring with far too much verve to be authentic. And despite the grief that increased in his heart, Bilbo was amused, if only for a few moments at least, for he’d never had the pleasure of seeing the normally stout and blunt dwarves attempt anything surreptitious.

Bilbo wasn’t surprised, then, when Thorin entered their room, his features drawn in characteristic grimness tempered by vague anticipation. “Gather your things,” he said needlessly, “and follow me.”

The Company did not need to be told twice; indeed, Bilbo had the impression that they were glad to leave the halls of Rivendell and the valley of Imladris behind them. Bilbo could not claim the same relief; he was sorely unhappy to depart from such a place, of which he knew he’d never see again. For all Thorin’s talk of the glory of Erebor being without compare, Bilbo doubted this as he doubted most things he’d come to see in his adventure thus far, and it made his heart heavy.

He might have hesitated over the threshold of Rivendell, as he’d made no secret of his unwillingness to go beyond the safe confines of this sheltered valley. He could see that this was not lost on Thorin, who turned back every few paces to examine his progress, his brows dipping lower over his eyes with every step. “Keep up, Mr. Baggins,” he called, resting his arms on his walking axe. “Or our route will be lost to you, and there will be no place for you here.”

The dwarves chortled at this, and Bilbo felt his cheeks burn with shame. It was easy for Thorin to look at Rivendell with a mistrustful eye, and easier still for him to leave it behind, but for Bilbo, who had seen Rivendell as a refuge, perhaps even as a final bastion of beauty in an interminable journey full of peril and uncertainty, he felt as if striding beyond these borders would take the heart out of him. Far be it from Thorin to understand, or even to make an attempt to, and at that moment Bilbo housed mutinous thoughts and bitter desires, chief among them being a fantasy where he was wounded or killed or otherwise incapacitated, and Thorin would finally be forced to acknowledge Bilbo’s importance when they stood at the doors of Erebor without the burglar they had misused for so long.

Unsurprisingly, Bofur was the first to notice Bilbo’s unhappiness. “He didn’t mean any harm by it,” he said quietly, just at Bilbo’s elbow.

“But he sows harm anyway,” Bilbo fired back under his breath, unable to swallow his bitterness this time. “Intent means nothing compared to the result.”

“Aye, maybe,” Bofur allowed.

Though Bilbo knew Bofur was being agreeable merely to soothe his temper, he found he appreciated it regardless. “I should not take my frustration out on you,” he said with a sigh. “I’m sorry.”

“Ooh, better you take it out on me than any of the others,” Bofur said, and he winked. “I’m more agreeable than our brave leader, and less likely to take real offense.”

“That you are,” Bilbo said, chancing a furtive glance over the shoulders of the others to Thorin, who led them onward at a brisk pace, taking strides that were almost too large to be those of a dwarf. “He takes offense at my presence alone, it seems.”

“I don’t know about that. Mostly, I think your regard for the elves offends him.”

Bilbo scowled. “What a stupid thing to be jealous of. Am I not free to observe beauty where I see it?”

“Sure you are,” said Bofur, shrugging. “Like I said, I don’t presume to know the mind of our leader.”

“You’re comfortable enough making guesses for him.”

“As are you.”

Bilbo let out a long breath in defeat. He did not remember being so bitter and ill-tempered before he’d set out on this journey, and though a part of him wanted to blame this confounded misadventure for his current affect, he know that would have been a cowardly falsehood, and at the very least he could decide not to abide by those. The truth was that he was exhausted and weary, and immensely tired of being seen as a fool by most of the other dwarves. The truth was that Thorin’s disregard had begun to eat at him; each offhand remark and cutting stare as painful as a wound.

“Forgive me, Bofur,” said Bilbo heavily. “I am not myself these days.”

Bofur clapped him on the back in a reassuring manner, breaking into a cheeky grin. “You don’t need to apologize,” he said brightly. “It’s impossible to offend me.”

“Perhaps that’s the reason you’re the only one able to tolerate me.”

“Perhaps I genuinely enjoy your company,” Bofur argued lightly. “You make me laugh.”

“Well, then. I’m glad something positive came of this,” Bilbo said as he gestured to himself, biting back a grudging smile.

They continued on in silence for the rest of the night, hiking the high trails of Rivendell and into the mountain paths beyond. It was only after the sun had risen many hours later when the dwarves began to talk amongst themselves again, as if they had been afraid the elves would hear them in their escape. So they continued through all the hours of daylight in the same manner.

Around dusk, Bilbo watched Thorin hold up his hand to signal for the dwarves to stop before pulling Dwalin aside, and the two quickly conferred in low voices before the grizzled warrior set out,  securing the perimeter of their camp for the next few hours; an alcove in a rock face, protected from the wind. At their leader’s command, the rest of the dwarves followed suit without so much as another word otherwise.

As he dropped his pack and unrolled his bedroll, Bilbo found himself wondering how the Company had been formed, all those months ago. He remembered Thorin had said each of these dwarves had answered when they had been called, which gave Bilbo the impression that each was very brave, and perhaps motivated by honor and duty and a love of kin.

Though as he considered Bofur, who was currently helping Bombur strike up a fire for the evening meal, he wondered. It made sense that Thorin Oakenshield would have asked his kin, distant and otherwise, to aid him on this quest, but what use would he have had for three dwarves of common birth, who had no relation to Durin and no stock in the kingdom of Erebor? Surely Thorin must have considered that dwarves of their cut would be interested in the riches more than the glory. Was he so desperate for that not to matter to him?

“Bofur?” asked Bilbo.

“Hm?”

Bilbo frowned, searching for an inoffensive way to word his question before deeming the search impossible. There was no way to ask without making a poor assumption of Bofur, and though Bilbo knew the dwarf wouldn’t mind, he felt marginally guilty for making it in the first place. “Thorin asked you to be a part of his Company, yes?” he managed.

“Aye, he did,” said Bofur.

“May I ask why?”

Bofur laughed. “Why? You mean, why would he bother asking a common dredge like myself and my kin?”

“Not in those words, but yes. You’re no kin of his. Why would he have thought to ask you?”

Bofur was quiet for a moment too long, and Bilbo had the sudden impression that he was lost in a significant memory, one that might have brought him shame or made him humble, or perhaps even given him reason to be proud in equal measure, for when he finally spoke again it was in the vague tone he preferred to use when telling a tale.

“You have little patience for him,” Bofur said. “But for all his flaws, he is a King more worthy of that title than any I’ve ever known or heard of. And I will stand by that until the day I die.”

So it was loyalty that had inspired Bofur to embark on this quest, and loyalty that had inspired Thorin to seek out the miner and his kin. “What did he do to have earned your loyalty?” Bilbo wondered.

“Couldn’t it just be what he is?”

“We are what we do,” Bilbo said reflexively, and for a moment it had almost been like his mother was there, speaking through him.

“That’s true enough, Mr. Bilbo,” said Bofur with a vague smile. “It’s a long and boring story, but I suppose the short of it is that he showed mercy to a thief, and gave the thief a chance to live in a place where he would no longer be considered a thief.”

Bilbo attempted to ply Bofur into further explanation, but as usual the dwarf wouldn’t hear of it. And thus this riddle consumed Bilbo for a long time.

\--

Bofur woke sometime in the dead of night, and for a moment he occupied that tenuous space between waking and dreams, where the touch of the world was a suggestion and not a demand, and it shimmered at the edge of sight. What dreams they had been, too; a distant land without borders, sunlight streaming down from the top of craggy peaks, and the silhouette of a dearly loved woman against the glow of a forge.

He blinked the sleep from his eyes and pushed himself upright. Last he’d been aware, Rikke had been curled in his arms, her hand pressed flat against his chest, her long soft hair covering them both. But he was alone now, and for a moment he feared that everything between them had been the stuff of his imaginings, too beautiful to be real.

But he caught sight of her sitting by the fire, stitching up a hole in one of his tunics spread over her lap. Her eyes were narrowed in concentration, but she looked up when she heard him stir, and on her lips a gentle smile bloomed.

She was so beautiful that he couldn’t breathe.

“How long was I asleep?” he finally asked her, clearing his throat.

“Not long. A few hours, maybe more.”

He frowned as he pushed back his loose hair with one hand.  “You shouldn’t have let me drift off.”

“Why not?”

“I only have so much time before I have to leave.”

“You were exhausted, despite your insistence to the contrary,” she said.

“I wasn’t really. I’m just terribly lazy.”

She laughed. “You, lazy? You work harder than any man I’ve ever known, with even less complaint. You needed some rest, and I was pleased to give you a place to do so. Besides,” she said, tying off the stitch and draping his mended tunic over her seat before crawling back into bed, curling around him. “I like watching you sleep.”

He grinned, pulling her closer. “Oh aye? Why is that?”

“You smile even when asleep.”

He buried his nose in her hair and breathed in the sweet scent of her. “I dreamed of you,” he murmured.

“You’re an incorrigible romantic,” she smirked. “I hardly know what to do with you sometimes.”

“You like it.”

“Maybe,” she said, biting her lip. “What was I doing in this dream?”

“You were at a forge at the base of a mountain I didn’t recognize. You gleamed like the sun, clad in armor. You smiled.”

“Outside the mountain?” she wondered. “I didn’t wear my false beard, or my shoulders?”

“In my dream, there was no need for you to.”

“Hm.” She fell silent, trailing her idle fingers over his stomach. “I should like to live in such a place.”

“One day you will.”

“Perhaps,” she breathed, though he knew that she didn’t believe him. “Where were you in this dream?

“I . . . I don’t know,” he said. “I suppose I was so distracted by you that I forgot to think of myself.”

“That’s typical,” she said, and she burrowed closer as if she could not bear to let him go. “It would be no dream of mine without you there.”

“You accuse me of being an incorrigible romantic when you’re so many times worse,” he laughed, for he did not have the words to tell her how precious he found what she’d said.

She sighed, attempting to seem put out. “It’s easy to let my tongue run away with me when you’re here.”

“And I’m glad for it.”

It was often like this. Left to her own devices, she was pragmatic and prone to pessimism, but in the moments when they were alone, entwined in front of a warm fire, pressed skin to skin, she would forget these years of solitude, these protective layers of bitterness that had once covered her from head to toe like armor, and he would see a glimpse of how she might have been, were things different.

This Rikke he knew in the privacy of her room was as fierce as he’d recognized the moment they met, but she smiled. She was fierce in joy as well as sorrow.

He wanted to tell her that he loved her. The impulse would come over him at the strangest times: as he watched her cook, when she bent low over Riva and pressed her lips to her daughter’s brow, tucking her hair behind her ear, or when she threaded her fingers between his and pressed his hands close, as if she had gone her entire day craving the simple touch of him. It grew beyond an impulse when she drew near, her lips on his neck, when they entwined as lovers do, or at times when she simply looked up at him with a half-smile on her lips, her eyes bright with happiness.

He knew he should confess it, for he’d told her that he would choose the truth over his comfortable lies and evasions. But this was a truth that seemed more like a great precipice, and to speak of it was to pitch himself off its edge and plummet to the earth, praying he had wings to bear him safely along. He had none of that required certainty, and so he swallowed the impulse whenever he could manage, though it had grown beyond his ability to suppress, and to keep it unspoken required him to bite the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.

He was a coward, after all. That hadn’t changed. And though he did not think little of her and her ability to make her intentions plain, his lack of self-regard forced him to consider that this was different for her than it was for him. Perhaps he should confess it simply to alleviate any pain in the future, but to do so was to cast a bright light on this dream, and he couldn’t bear the thought. Not now . . . not when things were so otherwise uncertain.

They dozed, savoring the nearness of each other. He’d memorized the exact cadence of her breathing, the precise scent of her hair – ale and smoke and spice – and the coarseness of her hands juxtaposed with the impossibly soft skin of her thigh, her soft belly. He saw her skin rise to his touch, and she shifted into him, a soft sound at the back of her throat.

“I wonder when you’ll tire of that,” she murmured, half-asleep.

“Never.”

“So you say. In my experience, the attention of men is a fickle thing.”

“Not all men are that way,” he chastised gently.

He watched her lips curve upward, her arm slung over her eyes. “Perhaps you’re right. I suppose I’ll reserve judgment for now.”

“I’ll spend my life proving you wrong.”

Her smile widened. “There you go again.”

“Aye, I can’t seem to help myself when you’re concerned,” he said with a laugh. “Forgive me.”

“As long as you mean what you say, there is nothing to forgive.”

“I do,” he promised her.

She propped herself up on one elbow and pulled herself close, twining one strand of his hair around her finger. And he thought that he would never tire of that attention either, that being treated as if she found him precious was precious itself, more precious than the riches of the world. He hadn’t known that he was given to hyperbole, but now it was all he could do to keep from lapsing into strains of it every time he opened his mouth to speak, or fell silent to think.

“Riva told me something interesting the other day,” said Rikke.

“Is it something she’d want to tell me herself?”

“No, I don’t think so. She’s too shy to admit it.”

“Your daughter, shy?” He craned around and made a great show of surprise. “Are we thinking of the same child?”

She swatted him, laughing. “Don’t be so horrible. She’s very enamored with you. She’d never confess this of her own volition.”

“Then I wonder if you should tell me about it,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to betray a confidence.”

“It’s nothing terrible, and it’s likely you’ve guessed it for yourself already.” Rikke smiled, and for a moment her own smile almost managed to be shy as well. “She wishes you were her father.”

“I would be, if I could,” he said before he could stop himself. “I would be in all matters but law, if you wanted.”

He felt her tremble at his words before she brought herself under control once again, but he saw traces of that smile remain, so bright that he thought he stared straight into the sun. “Now I’m embarrassed.”

“Why?!”

“It’s just . . . it’s something I had considered. Talking to you about it. It stunned me when she spoke of it the other day, for it was almost as if she had read my mind.”

“Well, now I have to know what it is,” he teased, pinching her side. “Otherwise it’ll be as if you two are conspiring against me with all your shared thoughts, and poor me on the outside.”

She let out an unsteady breath, and he felt her go slightly rigid against him, as if she attempted to fortify herself against the rebuke she expected. “She asked me if one day, she might ever have a younger brother or sister.”

For a few moments too long, Bofur could not speak, and he felt her recoil as if his silence was the unfavorable answer she expected. “I . . . don’t think so,” he managed.

“I – I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have –“ she said, drawing away, her cheeks darkening with shame.

Gently, he took her face between his hands, carefully as if she could break under them. “It’s not like that. I would, if it were possible. I’ve . . . I’ve always wanted to. But it’s not possible for me. Do you understand?”

And slowly, he saw that she did. “Oh,” she said in a small voice. “And . . . how do you know?”

“There was . . .” He sighed. “There was another woman, many years ago. Not anything serious. Just that she told me that nothing happened when she expected that it should have, and so it went on for many months. And I realized I was at fault.”

“I see,” she said. Her brows pulled together over troubled eyes, and she picked at a hangnail on her thumb. “Was she very beautiful then?” she asked coolly.

It took him a moment to realize what was troubling her. “You’re jealous,” he laughed aloud.

“Should I be?”

“ _No,”_ he insisted. “I was young, it was different. She wasn’t anything like you.”

“Maybe that was for the best,” Rikke said haughtily.

“Aye, it was,” he grinned. “I l – care for you far more than I cared for her. You’re far more beautiful than she was. And more interesting. And you’re fierce as a blade, whereas I think she was liable to crumple at the slightest thing. Should I go on?”

Slightly mollified, Rikke drew close to him again. “That’s not necessary.”

“If you say.”

They fell silent for a few moments, watching the shapes of the fire dance in the hearth. “I’m sorry,” she said finally, her fingers curling over his belly. “I would have wanted to – if things were different.”

“Even if they weren’t, I would have wanted to,” he said. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, and to disappoint Riva.”

“It’s not a – well, it’s not a dire disappointment. Riva will be sad, I’m sure, but she’s too pleased to have you in her life to be overly picky. And as for me, well . . .” she said, shrugging slightly. “I don’t know if I ever told you that it was a challenge for me to have Riva in the first place. There were . . . quite a few false starts.”

He understood immediately. “I’m so sorry,” he said quietly.

“It’s fine,” she said, brisk. “It’s over and done with.”

“You’re right,” he agreed. He thought it important that he tell the truth in this moment, for she was still slightly stiff in his arms, perhaps fearing that he’d lied in a way that would make a rejection feel less like his choice and more like the workings of cruel chance. “Just so you know, if it were possible for me,” he told her seriously, “I wouldn’t have wanted it with anyone but you.”

She said nothing, but he felt her draw close once again, and slowly her breathing fell in time with his own. And they savored the silence of one another, the tender familiarity that came with truth and touch and unselfconscious answers to earnest questions.

Too quickly his least favorite hour came – the hour in which he was expected to sneak away in the dead of night, so they wouldn’t be discovered. Slowly they dressed with an air of regret. Her fingers were not eager when they tied the laces of his tunic or when she helped him shrug into his coat, but when she braided his hair she was as tender as always, and he closed his eyes to savor the touch of her, holding it close, sealing it away where it would have to sustain him until the next stolen night they could share.

These final hours with Rikke were always difficult, but this hour was different than the rest, for as they dressed Bofur remembered the conversation he’d had with Ori earlier than night. (Had it been only hours before? It seemed as if days had passed instead). He thought of the journey to the kingdom of Erebor that Thorin Oakenshield had a mind to attempt – the city of legend that housed riches untold and the possibility of a fearsome dragon that would sooner melt the flesh off your bones than relinquish its hoard.

And despite the danger and the dragon and the fact that being apart from Rikke was such a painful prospect that it knocked the breath out of him, it was tempting. He watched Rikke bustle about her tiny home, shrugging into a dirty apron and tying her hair back so that it didn’t fall into her eyes as she worked. He saw the dark circles under her eyes and the shadow of a bruise on her arm, obvious in the dim light, a reminder that she was at the beck and call of terrible people, and that try as he might, he was not able to protect her from this, not as long as they lived here.

And the dream caught fire, expanding outward like a burst of flame. Instead of poverty, he saw Rikke as she should be, the Rikke of his dream. Clad in armor, flush from the forge, smiling and glowing like the sun. He saw Riva with clean clothes that fit instead of worn tatters that were a few inches too short for her growing frame. He saw them in a home that they deserved – a large, clean place, with room enough to run from one end of the other, with clean walls and floors and hidden places for a curious child to hide.

There was no guarantee that things would be different in the kingdom of Erebor. He was endlessly familiar with the customs of the dwarves of the Blue Mountains, but he had no way of knowing that they were shared with the refugees of Erebor. Perhaps the dwarves of the Lonely Mountain thought their women to be possessions as well, and that ownership extended beyond death. He couldn’t know. He didn’t know.

But he could not control the dream now.

With a nearly inaudible sigh, Rikke settled his hat on his head, and he saw the regret in her eyes. “How I hate this hour,” she whispered, pulling him close.

“I was just thinking the same.”

“Promise me you will be safe,” she said, burying her face into his shoulder, and he felt her breath warm his neck.

“As much as I can be,” he promised, cursing that he could not give her a more solid vow.

“Right,” she said, letting out a trembling breath.  “I will see you soon.”

He pulled her closer, pressing his lips to the paper-thin skin of her temple and savoring the thrilling pulse there, the vital proof that she was solid and alive in his arms. “Not soon enough.”

It would go on like this for hours if he didn’t pull away, though to do so was wholly unnatural, and painful as any injury he’d ever suffered in his life. He opened the door and made to stride out into the commons when he felt her hand close around his wrist and pull him back to the doorway.

And he should have known better; there were always eyes open, and that to carry on like fools was to invite disaster. But at that moment all he knew was that he loved her, and love made him careless. He kissed her roughly and she responded in equal turn, her lips searing against his, her hands twining behind his neck to hold him closer, because he knew that it was never close enough – he felt that same drive to be one where two was forced on them.

For the second time, he pulled away from her and turned to leave. They were not in the habit of saying goodbye to one another, because goodbyes were permanent things, and they could only tolerate separation if it was understood to be a temporary arrangement, fleeting as dawn. He was also not in the habit of looking back, for he knew that to do so would make it all the more difficult to leave, but on this morning he did. He looked over his shoulder to see her standing in her doorway, her hands knotted to together over her apron, her hair mused from their kiss. Her eyes were dark, but she smiled for him despite it.

His gaze was fixed on Rikke, so he didn’t see one of her neighbors peering out from her filthy window, her eyes wide, her mouth a perfect circle of surprise.

 

 

 

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

Without their ponies, the Company made considerably slower progress over the mountains, though Bilbo found most of his companions were in high spirits despite it. He realized the likely cause was because the heart of a dwarf longs for the feel of solid stone beneath him, and among these difficult crags each of them found a measure of peace in their journey. Perhaps Thorin saw the shadow of his lonely peak in the stones of the Misty Mountains, and it brought happiness to his long hardened heart.

Bilbo would sooner complete the trek to the Lonely Mountain naked that admit this aloud, but anything that smoothed the worried crease between Thorin’s brows and lifted the spirits of his companions was all right by him.

In the privacy of his own thoughts, he had to grudgingly admit that this was beautiful country – as different from the Shire as night is from day, but no less stunning. Atop these majestic peaks he could see for miles in all directions, the valleys and forests below so distant that the trees lost their features and blended together, a green tapestry that stretched as far as the eye could see. Above him the sun shone without the cover of clouds, and it seemed strange to him that the sun should feel further away when they were so high above the rest of the world.

He thought of the rolling hills of the Shire with a small pang of loss, but an odd memory came to him, then: as a boy, he had sought out the tallest hill in the Shire, bounding around the impossibly green countryside until he came to an incline that was nearly thirty feet above the road. He had scaled one of the trees at the top of the hill until he’d reached the highest branch, and from that vantage point he though as if he could see every mile of the Shire as clearly as it was laid out in front of him like a map drawn from life. To summit these peaks invoked a very similar feeling, made all the more potent by the height of their paths, and the distance he had travelled.

It was the Tookish blood in him. It was the secret corner of his heart that relished in adventure and yearned for the unreachable corners of the world – the mountains, caves that reached an impossible depth, rivers rushing and lakes as clear as glass. It was the hidden part of him that existed beneath the practical sensibilities he preferred on most days, in most circumstances.

But it was so easy to look at this world and forget that he should mind his step and keep to the line of dwarves, or disaster would come as if he had summoned it by his inattention alone.

And come it nearly did. The Company spent the afternoon carefully traversing a natural bridge beneath a waterfall. Thorin called for them to mind themselves and cross nice and slow, for the rocks were slippery and unstable, but though Thorin was right beside Bilbo, he was not paying attention. Instead, he admired the way the light streamed through the rushing water, like a shimmering, insubstantial veil. Perhaps before, Bilbo might have muttered that the cold was intolerable and the wet even more so, and that it would take hours for his coat to dry, by which point he’d likely have caught a cold, but after the last few days of drinking in the beauty of the mountain, Bilbo found that these thoughts were further away then they’d ever been.

Suddenly, the ground was no longer solid beneath him, and he was vaguely aware of his feet sliding where they should have stuck, his weight thrown precariously over the sodden lip of the path, which had been beautiful only a moment before. He did not even have time to call for help; instead, a half-coherent yelp came from between his clenched teeth, and he waved his arms wildly, struggling to find purchase on something, anything –

But he was aware of strong hands hauling him back over the edge, throwing him against the cliff face with so much force that his head struck the stone, and he saw stars whirling in front of his eyes. He thought it had been Bofur that had saved him, so he nearly yelped again when he saw Thorin’s white-knuckled hand fisted over his jacket, his eyes wide for a moment before they took on their customary hooded glare once again.

“Mind your step, Mr. Baggins,” said Thorin with a hint of reproach, and before Bilbo could respond he turned and resumed his careful trek across the path to safe ground. Bilbo followed dumbly behind, and he didn’t know if it was the slight smack to his head, the sudden brush with death, or some other odd reaction that made the world spin. He realized he was so far out of his depth in this place– that traversing the wild and appreciating it for its beauty was dangerous, just as he’d known, and though he’d been seduced for a moment, he had best keep his eyes fixed firmly to the ground, so as not to slip again.

“Are you all right?” Bofur asked as he drew close, speaking so quietly that no one else could hear.

“My head hurts,” said Bilbo vaguely, and he rubbed the back of his skull, where there was sure to be a lump forming.

“I didn’t see you pitch over until it was nearly too late,” said Bofur, and Bilbo realized there was a note of guilt in his voice. Perhaps he felt that he had forsaken his promise to keep a closer eye on Bilbo, and in this he had nearly been responsible for whatever violent fate Bilbo might have met at the bottom of the waterfall. “Lucky Thorin was there.”

“Was it?” Bilbo said, with a sideways look at their leader, who was now gazing out at the open mountains, perhaps deducing the surest path forward. “I thought it unlucky, myself.”

They continued on in silence for the rest of the day, and only when they made camp near sunset did Bilbo hear the voices of his companions once again. He’d descended so totally into his preoccupied focus that he hadn’t been aware of their conversations, and there was no way he could have known if they’d spent the day in mirrored silence, or if it was only a trick of his mind.

Bilbo caught a glimpse of Thorin gesturing to Kíli and Bifur to follow him, and the three of them slipped into the darkening wilderness, likely to hunt for their dinner. Oin fished out a salve from his pack that would ease the ache of smarting feet and shoulders and passed it to Dori, who let out a put-upon sigh as he reclined on his bedroll. Bofur set about starting a fire as Bombur began the supper stew, lining up containers of spice and herbs that were more precious than all the gold of the mountains, in Bilbo’s eyes. Fíli and Dwalin sat at the perimeter of camp and watched the quickening darkness, keen on anything that might pose a threat.

Bilbo watched his companions carry out their well-worn routine, doing his honest best to ignore the dull pain that thudded at the back of his head. It hadn’t bled, thank goodness, but when he traced his fingers tentatively over the source, he felt a hard bruise just beneath his filthy, matted hair. It seemed paradoxical to him that only hours before, he had been enjoying the splendor of the mountains, likening this journey to the fancies he’d cultivated as a boy. Now he was only cold and wet and sore, with a few scrapes on his poor raw feet and a heart full of disquiet.

It took Bilbo a full minute to realize that young Ori had taken a seat beside him, settling his well-worn sketch journal over his knees. “Do you mind if I join you?” he asked with an eager grin.

“No, of course not,” Bilbo said reflexively, though at the moment he wanted to remain alone with his loneliness. “Can you sketch in this light?”

“The light’s not so bad,” Ori said, shrugging. “I reckon us dwarves have better sight in the dark than you hobbits.”

“That does seem to be true,” Bilbo agreed. “Since you live your lives in the heart of the mountains.”

“Aye, just so,” said Ori, and Bilbo saw that his expression had grown fond. “But they say the streets of Erebor shine like the sun.”

“That sounds like something Bofur would say,” Bilbo countered, not exactly impressed.

Ori shrugged again. “But consider if it’s true,” he argued devoutly, as if they spoke of a god-like spirit and not the ruins of a city far to the east. “Do you think you could go back to your Shire once you’d seen a place like that?”

“I could, and quite easily,” said Bilbo. Noticing Ori’s crestfallen expression, he struggled to explain himself. “I – I mean that the Shire is my home. And streets that shine like the sun and all the riches of that lost place could never compare. Do you understand my meaning?”

“Aye,” Ori said, but Bilbo could tell that the dwarf did not, at least not fully. Likely he had lived all his life in a surrogate home. His elder brothers had drifted from place to place, and they’d never known what it was like to have a place that belonged to you, and that you belonged in equal measure. None of the dwarves did.

“Have you considered what you’ll do if we succeed?” Bilbo asked him, watching his sure hands fly across the page with far more skill that Bilbo would ever be able to emulate.

“I don’t know, yet,” Ori said, scratching his chin before resuming his sketch. “Thorin says there was an archive before Smaug, so I might try and help restore what I can. That is, if there is anything to restore in the first place. Though I expect Smaug’s more interested in the treasure than the records.”

“Who wouldn’t be?” Bilbo wondered aloud. “There’s real value in gold.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Ori said. “A record is priceless when you consider that it might be the only record of it’s like in existence.”

Bilbo grinned. “You have a point.”

But to his credit, the dwarf did not gloat or mock Bilbo for his erroneous assumption, as the others might have. He merely resumed his sketch of the mountainside, framed by the sparse pines that feathered against the sky, the deepening darkness that slowly gave way to stars.

Perhaps it was the disquiet in his heart or the dull thudding of his sore head, but Bilbo could not resist asking the question that burned at the back of his throat like bile, growing more and more insistent the more he tried to swallow it. “What will you do if we can’t?” he asked Ori quietly.

“If we can’t what?”

“Take back Erebor.”

“But we will,” Ori said stoutly, with the devout faith of a child.

“But if we can’t,” Bilbo insisted. “Have you considered what you’ll do if we can’t?”

He could tell that Ori had not, for he paused with pencil in hand, smudging the page where he worked. His expression had become preoccupied. “Well . . . probably go back to the Blue Mountains,” he said slowly. “Or the Iron Hills. Somewhere we don’t really belong.”

“Do you think the other dwarves would begrudge you, though?” said Bilbo. “You may not be kin, but you’re dwarves. They wouldn’t turn you away.”

“I don’t know,” said Ori. “Now that I think about it, I wouldn’t go back to the Blue Mountains, nor will I ever. Not even if I had no other place to go.”

Bilbo was stunned at the dwarf’s sudden vehemence. “Why wouldn’t you?”

Ori shifted uncomfortably on his bedroll, adjusting his sketch journal on his knees. Bilbo knew instinctively that he felt he’d said too much, and yet the Tookish side of Bilbo was consumed by curiosity, and he wouldn’t rest until he had an answer.

“You’ve nothing to fear from telling me,” Bilbo said.

“Oh, aye, I know,” said Ori. “Just that it’s not really on my account, but on a friend’s.” He was silent for a moment, his pencil drifting over the page, scribbling tight, preoccupied doodles. When he spoke again, there was a measure of grit in his voice that Bilbo had never heard before. “You asked me what I’d do if we failed to take back Erebor? I’d try again, and again if need be. I’d try until we’d succeeded.”

Bilbo was astounded by this answer. “Even if it killed you?”

“Aye, even then,” Ori said fiercely. “Because some of us don’t have any place to go back to.”

He didn’t clarify who among the Company had no place and therefore no recourse for failure, but as Bilbo watched Bofur tend the campfire and considered all he knew of his friend, he realized there wasn’t a need.  

\--

Bofur had never been the subject of a scandal, so he couldn’t have predicted how the events would unfold. There was naïve part of him that expected that any repudiation to be both slow and obvious, so he’d have time enough to compensate and formulate a plan. He’d been naïve enough not to formulate a plan in the first place, aside from ‘don’t be caught’, and now that he’d been caught, he hardly knew how to proceed now that his expectations had been proved mightily wrong.

It began innocuously enough; as he made his way to the mines, he would catch an odd stare every now and then – an expression heavy with reproach, the reason for which he didn’t understand. He wracked his memory in search of an offense, and when he found none, he continued on as he had for many days before, but this time with a niggling suspicion that something was wrong.

But he shrugged off those stares and set about his business as best he could. He wasn’t made of glass, after all. It was likely the odd glances he’d earned in the market were from parents of the children who sought out his toys and stories, and because he recited tales regardless of a child’s age, perhaps one of them found offense in his bluntness. Also, he was strange even without considering the odd tales he told, so there was the likely cause.

As the days turned into weeks, however, the stares did not abate. They increased, both in frequency and intensity, until at times Bofur felt as if their combined stares were an open flame on his skin, burning and blistering with their disregard. At times, he would earn a full glare from a stranger he had never spoken to in his life, staring at him as if he had personally wronged them somehow.

It was only after weeks had passed did he consider that he might have been seen with Rikke.

And the story came to him, with unfortunate relevance, as if it’d been crafted for his path alone: _Once, there was a fool who loved what he shouldn’t have._

He wasn’t thrilled about the prospect of being caught, but if this was all the dwarves of Ered Luin could muster in terms of punishment, they hadn’t had much to fear in the first place. He decided to broach the subject to Rikke one night as he sat in front of the fire, smoking his pipe in a pensive manner.

“I think we’ve been spotted,” he said, tapping the bowl of the pipe to encouraging the embers to life. Across the room, Rikke washed the bowls from dinner. He had offered to help, but she had taken one look at his hands, cracked and raw from the mines, and told him to take a seat in a tone that brooked no argument. But now she looked up at him as if he had cursed.

“Are you sure?” she said, brows pulled low over dark eyes.

“Been getting a lot of funny looks at market, is all,” he explained. “More than usual, anyway.”

He’d wanted to play it off as nothing, but he saw her expression collapse in obscene concern, and he couldn’t help feeling monstrous for making her worry. “How could they have seen us?” she breathed, running a sopping hand through her hair and leaving streaks of soap behind. “We’ve been careful, I – I’ve been careful. I don’t even speak of you to Riva when we’re in public. You wouldn’t have known you existed to me, even if you followed me every hour I was outside.”

“There was that one day you kissed me outside,” he pointed out unwillingly.

“It was early! My neighbors would not have woken for hours yet.”

“Well, someone saw. In some way.” He shrugged. “If all they’re going to do is glare at me, I don’t think we need to worry.”

“I don’t think they’ll stop at that, Bofur,” she said in a strange voice, brittle as dry clay. “They have – they have laws among themselves, unspoken strictures that must be obeyed. My husband, he was one of the dwarves of Ered Luin, and they remember his deeds fondly.”

“Piss on them if they remember that bastard in a good light.”

“This isn’t a joke’, Bofur,” Rikke said sharply. “They won’t stop at rude stares. They’ll call you a thief and run you out of the mountain. And – and I’ll never see you again.”

He realized something was amiss when she clapped her hands to her mouth and bent at the waist, and he could hear her dry retch even muffled as it was. The tight pit of guilt in his own gut twisted painfully, for these last few days she’d been ill, and he should have known better than to say anything that upset her.

“Here, now,” Bofur said, leaping out of his seat and crossing the room in three long strides before taking her soaked hands in his own and leading her to her chair in front of the fire. “That won’t happen, all right?”

“How can you know for certain?” she whispered.

“I know because I – well, I know that you won’t be rid of me so easily,” he said with a smile. “Not if I have anything to say about it. I – I mean, not if you want me, still,” he put in, giving voice to the vague fear that hounded him still.

“Perhaps one day I’ll make my affection for you clear enough that you will no longer think I’d tire of you,” she said softly.

He rubbed the back of his neck, shamed by the steadiness of her affection, and that even in these odd times he could count on it as much as he could count on the dawn of each day. “Forgive me,” he asked.

Instead she brought her hand to his face and pressed her lips gently to his, and beyond that moment he did not think of the glares of his neighbors and their silent condemnation. He foolishly thought that he would choose to suffer any manner of repudiation, if only for the chance of sharing these fleeting moments well after the rest of the mountain had fallen asleep.

He was forced to reconsider those words the next morning. _Once, there was a fool who set the world on fire …_

With a sigh, he slung his mattock against his shoulder and set out to the mines. The foremen had them delving even deeper into the northeastern chasms, for he suspected a sizeable deposit of precious gems in the rock there, and so they were made to come even earlier to the mines than usual. Bofur couldn’t complain, though – the pay was steady, and that was all that mattered to him at the moment.

But when he arrived at the mine and set the metal crown over his head, the foreman pulled him aside with an odd expression on his face, hesitating almost as if speaking to Bofur was a highly unpleasant prospect. “You can head on home, Bofur,” said the foreman without really looking at him. “There’s no room for you.”

 “New hires, then?” asked Bofur. This wasn’t the first time this had happened, though it was odd considering the chasms were considerable in size, and just the other day the foreman had bitterly complained that they were understaffed, and therefore unable to match the pace that he wanted to take to the depths.

“Aye, that’s the short of it.”

“I’ll come back in a few days, then,” said Bofur, shrugging.

“Ah – there’s no need, not yet,” said the foreman unwillingly. “I’ll send word if I need you again.”

With that, he turned and disappeared into the darkness of the mine, leaving Bofur alone in the commons with the mattock slung over his shoulder, a cruel reminder that only the day before he’d had a job and a steady source of income, and now he had nothing.

 _If,_ the foreman said. Not when. Bofur was not often given to temper, but at that moment he cursed the man for his cowardice. Far better for him to lay down Bofur’s fate without the half-speech and evasive language, like some common lily-gilled fop. Though as he trudged back home, the temper faded and guilt took its place. His family needed his steady pay to survive, and now that he had none they were in desperate trouble.

He cursed himself for his selfishness. Despite the foreman’s cowardice, it was clear that he’d been relieved because he’d taken up with a prominent widow, the wife and supposed property of a much loved warrior. He was foolish for not considering this properly at the start, and foolish for carrying on as he did – a love struck nance with his head in the clouds, drifting from place to place with a half formed story on his tongue.

_Once, there was a fool who destroyed everything he touched …_

But Bofur was not one to wallow in tragedy, and though he was indeed consumed by stress at the prospect of providing for his family now, he did not let it defeat him. Riva always said that he should make a go of selling toys every day, as Bifur did. The way he saw it, he didn’t have much of a choice now.

So the next few days he set about his craft as if he had the freedom to do so completely without reservation, when in truth it was desperation that moved his hands and shaped the wood into toys that were more like his elder cousin’s than anything of his own fancy. Of course both Bombur and Bifur had noticed that he no longer trudged off to the mine in the mornings, and when prodded Bofur merely said that he’d been laid off in favor of some local miners, and they’d nodded simultaneously. It had happened before, after all. But if Bombur had a mind to tell his older brother _I told you so,_ he gamely refrained from acting on the impulse.

At first, it was all right. At first, he sold toys beside his cousin and told his stories to the children, all of whom were overjoyed to see that Bofur was now an everyday fixture of the market. His stall was on the outskirts of the commons so he was able to avoid the scalding glares of the other merchants, who all seemed to know exactly who he was and what he’d done. But those first days, it didn’t matter – he did honest business doing what he loved.

He couldn’t have expected it to last. _Once, there was a fool, and his foolishness caused more destruction than he knew._

One by one, the children stopped coming. There were a few holdouts who couldn’t imagine their beloved toymaker storyteller had done anything all that bad, and they insisted coming by his stall even though it brought their parents by, and they would drag the wayward child away, sometimes despite his or her piteous cries. And that hurt the most – that his foolishness caused the children he’d come to know and care for suffering.

“You should probably open your own stall,” said Bofur one night, perched in front of the fire of their home, hunched in his chair as if expecting fierce reprisal for his words.

Bifur signed angrily, his hands jerking so quickly that he nearly knocked over the ale at his elbow, and though some of the finer words were lost in his haste, the gist was clear: **NO.**

“You know it has to be like this,” Bofur said sadly. “They’ll stop buying from you if we keep going on as we have.

Bifur launched into another wave of signing, this time taking special care to make each word emphatically clear: **< NO. Their preference means nothing. You are kin. I won’t abandon you.> **

“It’s not about preference, Bifur,” sighed Bofur, rubbing his raw eyes. “It’s about logic. No sense in making it so both of us aren’t pulling in any money, right?”

This cut Bifur’s wordless rant short, and the look of helplessness on his cousin’s face broke Bofur’s heart. **< I could go back to the mine … >**

“NO,” said Bofur sharply. “They wouldn’t let you back in, anyhow. Not with your head the way it is.”

Bifur did not say or sign a word; he only stared at his knotted hands, and his expression was so lost that Bofur cursed himself as he had for the last weeks – for his selfishness, for his stupidity, for being unable to exercise caution when it was most needed.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a small voice, more to his own hands than to Bifur. And though Bifur did not reply, he laid his own hand on Bofur’s shoulder in a wordless gesture of support that Bofur knew he did not deserve.

_Once, there was a fool who broke the hearts of those he loved best …_

The next day, he went to market alone. He set up his solitary shop more out of stubborn habit than anything, arranging his dusty wares on the stall front and waiting for customers that did not come. He ignored the other merchants, and they ignored him. It was odd to prefer being stared at like a criminal and a thief to this new phase of punishment, for now they treated him as if he did not exist at all, and at times he wondered if they were right to do so. He was a fool and a ghost – the pitiful carvings and toys little better than the stuff of a spirit’s desire – and among the solid and steady dwarves of Ered Luin, there was no place for thieving ghosts.

Was he a thief? He hadn’t stolen gold or a piece of bread. He’d stolen the love of a woman, perhaps, though she had stolen his own just the same. He was not inclined to think of Rikke as an object, thus accusations of thievery fell flat. But the punishment was real enough – disproportionate as he found it. He was forced to live in this world that he’d created for himself; flagrantly flying in the face of the customs that dictated this place.

“Bofur!” called a high voice from across the commons, and he saw the small form of Riva cutting through the thoroughfare, speeding underfoot almost faster than he could see. She held a coin purse above her head like an offering to some pagan spirit and her smile was fierce in joy. He’d forgotten what it was like to see such a thing, and he felt himself reflexively smiling back.

“Ho there, dear heart,” he said. “What have you got there?”

She brandished the coin purse under his nose, hopping on one foot and nearly toppling over in her excitement. “My first day’s wages!” she crowed, impervious to the scandalized stares of the other patrons and merchants.  “I sold some clothes I made, and I made thirty bits!”

“Mahal above, that’s a good steady day’s wage, isn’t it?” he said. “I’m proud of you.”

She beamed so wide that he thought her face might split on the seams of her smile. “I was going to buy you and Mama something nice,” she said. “Maybe some fancy bread. Or some salt – Mama’s nearly out.”

“Both fine ideas,” he said.

“What would you want?”

“Oh, I don’t need anything,” he said. “You keep your wages and buy yourself something nice, all right? Or save them for something precious.”

She considered this in silence, her gaze dropping to the untouched toys on his stall, and only then did she realize that it was exactly as she had left him in the morning. He saw her expression crumple into concern nearly instantly, and he cursed himself for not thinking to hide some of the toys when she approached, to give the impression that he’d made a decent day’s worth of business himself.

“Why haven’t you sold anything?” she asked, peering closer at the toys.

“My works aren’t that popular, you know that,” he said easily.

But she was not convinced. “These are dusty,” she said, swiping a finger over one of the dollies and examining the filth on her finger. He saw something crystalize in her gaze. “How long has it been like this?”

“Oh, not long,” he hedged. “Bifur makes fine business still, so we’re all right.”

“But ... your toys are lovely. And the other children love your stories just as much as your toys, and I don’t see them around,” Riva said, peering out at the commons, brows sinking lower over her worried eyes.

“Likely just an off day,” he said.

Riva did not acknowledge this lie. “They know,” she said finally, looking up at him. “That’s why they fired you from the mines, and why no one buys your wares.”

He didn’t see any point in lying anymore. _Once, there was a fool who cut the heart out of him with the truth._ “Aye, that’s the short of it,” he said quietly.

And he would never forget the look on that beloved girl’s face, for it was a monster he often wrestled with these days, to the point of exhaustion and despair. It was guilt. She looked at him as if his current misfortune was her fault in its entirety, as if she had created this horrible reality out of her own negligence and selfishness, and he almost laughed that she could have thought such a thing to be true when he alone was responsible.

“I – I didn’t realize . . . “ she trailed off, scuffing the ground with her worn shoe.

“Here, now,” he said, leaning over and tweaking her chin. “My fate is not your responsibility.”

“But you’ll have to go, won’t you?” she said, her eyes wide with fear at the prospect. “You can’t stay here if you can’t make a living.”

He’d been trying very hard to ignore that eventuality. What a delicious twist of fate it was – one he might have coveted and appropriated for his stories, in another time. “You don’t know that,” he said gently, though the lie was so thick in his throat that he felt he might choke on it. “They might forget.”

“They won’t,” she whispered. “They’re horrible, the lot of them.”

Bofur wasn’t going to argue that point. To force a woman to remain a living shrine to her dead husband, without caring for what she wanted with her own life, without considering that she might be flesh and blood, with a heart and desire and the capacity to love and grow lonely.

But before he could say another word, Riva seized the most expensive toy on the table – a doll he’d stitched out of linen and painted with a careful hand. “How much is this?” she asked quickly, impulsively.

“You don’t really want that,” he said. “You don’t like dollies.”

“I like this one,” she said stubbornly. “How much is it?”

“If you really wanted it, I’d just give it to you,” he said with a sad smile. “Do you really want it?”

She did not reply. Instead, she yanked the coin pouch off from around her neck and slammed it on the table, clutching the doll to her chest and speeding away before he could argue. And as he watched her go, he thought that his shame might silence him for the rest of his unworthy life, for he had brought misery to those he cared for most, and to his reckoning there was no greater crime in the world.

_Once, there was a fool, and his folly was my own._

 


	18. Chapter 18

After three weeks of existing as a ghost, transparent at the best of times and reviled at the worst, Bofur came to the realization that his time as a denizen of the Blue Mountains was over.

Perhaps this realization would not have upset him before. He had never entertained ties to these particular mountains – the home of his fathers had long been lost, so this place was as much of a temporary arrangement as any other empty place, without the benefit of a bond bound by obligation and blood. But his situation had changed in these last months; he had changed. No longer could he pack his things and stride out into the wilderness with his kin, unattached adults with marketable trade skills, who were more than able to make a living for themselves any place they settled. Now, he had Rikke and Riva to think about.

He ruminated for days without speaking, so quietly that it threw Riva into fits of panic, for she could sense the change coming, and her abundance of cleverness gave her the mistaken impression that the world was hers to shape, and circumstance bent to her will whenever she so much as entertained a fleeting whim. She begged him for stories, the likes with which he had entertained her with in those early, carless days, but the stories he told now were paltry things, disjointed words and images that were lacking their old heart.

He considered fleeing the Blue Mountains with Rikke and Riva, making a new life some place where they would be free to be together, without fear of censure or alienation. But a bitter voice shot down this fresh hope before it could properly take flight – where would they go? A human city, where they’d either be ignored or harassed? An elven holding? He found that prospect more laughable than probable, for what he knew of elves, they’d rather burn their homes than allow a dwarf permanent residence.

And what if they found a place somewhere? Living in the wilderness or on the squalid edges of a city, with nothing more to their name than what they could eke out. Bofur was not a greedy dwarf, not even by dwarven standards, but he knew that his skills as a miner and a toymaker would never provide Rikke and Riva the comfort and security that they deserved. At best, they’d get by, and he wanted to give them more than that. Perhaps it was stupid to think of lavishing anyone when his current situation had grown so dire, but he would be the first to admit that he was a fool, and a fool’s province is dreams.

He saw Rikke as he had seen her in his dreams; powerful, filled with steadiness and joy as she worked the forge – the labor of her passion. He saw Riva clad in clothes that fit, with the freedom to run from one end of a massive estate to the other, resplendent with toys and books, and more places to hide than the mountain itself. Instead of struggling, he saw them safe and happy. He knew he could not give that to them, no matter where he ran.

So he stayed, and suffered; strung up by indecision. Punished for his foolishness, beyond the scope of reason or justice.

“We would come with you,” Rikke said to him one night, so quietly that he almost didn’t hear her, but still with the steel of many years of hardship running through her voice. “You need not stay here on our account.”

He did not bite a retort; by this time, the fight had nearly left him. “So you could work another inn, full of lecherous swine who think you to be their property rather than a person who might not want to be touched? Perhaps an inn full of human customers rather than dwarves, who are at least brought up with remnants of honor, and will only grab your arm rather than up your skirt.”

“You know this for a fact, then?” said Rikke, an odd bite to her tone.

“I know enough,” he said. “It’s no true solution.”

“How well you seem to think you can decide for me,” Rikke snapped, her eyes bright. “Perhaps you will go, and I’ll simply follow you regardless of what you think or say.”

“Rikke,” he said softly. “You believe that I mean to order you about? Though I never have before?”

“Perhaps I do,” she said, and he saw a muscle flicker in her jaw. “Perhaps you are.”

“I would never order you to do anything. I’d only ask, knowing full well you’ll decide do what you will.” He smiled sadly. “I can handle the hatred of these strangers well enough, but I don’t believe I’d survive if you lost faith in me now.”

Something faltered in her eyes. “I haven’t,” she said with a sigh. “Only I see your eyes looking out beyond the borders of the Blue Mountains, and I suppose I fear you’ll leave me behind.”

“If I had to do so, I would not do it easily,” he said. “Or with a willing heart.”

“But you would?”

“Only if I believed there was no other option for me.” He did not add that he had nearly reached that threshold, and that the city around him had become has terrible as a burned out ruin, with only a few precious people keeping him there.

She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, a crease forming between her brows, her eyes dark and troubled “Why do I suspect that you believe that already?”

“Because you deserve so much more,” he said, finally unable to curb his intensity. He captured her hands between his and held them tightly, as if by the power of his touch alone he could convince her of his belief. “Suppose we fled the Blue Mountains; my kin, you and Riva, and I. Where would we go, and more importantly, what would we have waiting for us? A life much the same as this one, where we struggle to live. Where you labor in vain and I labor in vain, and we trudge on and on until we are ground up into mulch by the despair of that tragedy of a life and die. Why would I willingly ask you to come along to such a thing?”

Rikke did not say anything for a few long moments. “How odd is it that our roles are reversed at this hour. Here you are telling me of the cruelties of the world, and here I tell you that I’d follow you regardless of them. I’d suffer them gladly, if only for the chance to live with you.”

“But I would find a way to give you a better life,” he told her, one hand coming to rest at the soft skin of her check, framing those features that he loved so well. “Not just survival, but happiness. I would find that for you.”

“You are poisoned by your dreams,” she said quietly. But when he brought his lips to hers in a tentative kiss, she answered with desperate passion, as if he was already lost to her.

\--

Bofur had learned months ago that for a child as capricious as Riva, she appreciated routine more than anyone he had ever known. Once she’d learned that her morning visits were appropriate, she had never missed a day, bounding up to his front door and waiting with a beaming smile on her face, nearly unable to keep from excitement. Even in these darkened days, Riva managed to find a routine of her own to cling to, perhaps with even more tenacity than before, for now she feared that soon things would change beyond her ability to influence.

Every evening, she would trudge to Bofur’s abandoned toy shop and sit with him. At first he urged her to go home, for he knew full well that her presence would invoke the ire of the other merchants, but when one of them dared to shoo her away, she proved without a shadow of a doubt that she was her mother’s child and gave them such a tongue lashing that Bofur had not been able to keep from laughing aloud. It hadn’t improved his standing among the dwarves of the Blue Mountains, but it had lightened his heart considerably. So in that manner, a new routine was formed.

She made her way through the market to his stall now, a hard look of determination on her young features, studiously ignoring the merchants as if they were so far beneath her notice as to be insects, easily crushed under her heel.

“Ho there, dear heart,” he said, and he smiled for her. “You look mightily displeased.”

“Dari slapped me today,” she said sullenly, rubbing her cheek. “She says I’m wicked.”

“You certainly are not,” Bofur said. “And she should not have hit you. Did she tell you why you are wicked?”

Riva scuffed the ground with her worn shoes. “I might have put pig grease in her hat.”

Bofur struggled gamely against laughter. “Mahal above. Why would you do such a thing?”

“She’s foul. She … she said something about . . .  about you and Mama.” Riva’s lips trembled. “I told her she was old and foul and stupid, and she called me a greasy stain on the honor of my grandsires. So I . . . well, I reckon I thought it would be appropriate.” She bit her lip, and too late did he realize that she was struggling against laughter and not tears. “Now she’s the greasy stain.”

“I won’t deny that your prank suits my love of poetic justice,” said Bofur, rubbing his chin. “But she will make trouble for you, and for your mother. When she irritates you, just try to keep your thoughts to yourself. If you don’t give her anything to work with, she’ll sputter out before long.”

“Then she just rants about you and Mama,” said Riva. “I really hate her.”

“Hate is a strong word, dear heart.”

“It’s the truth. I wish she’d drop dead.”

“Now, I know no insult is worth wishing for that. She’s old and stuck in her ways, and you shouldn’t hold that against her.”

Riva sighed, scuffing the ground again. “I’m sorry.”

“Ah, you’re not really. But it’s good of you not to tell me to blow it out my arse anyway.”

She giggled, delighted that he dared to use such language in front of her. “Mama would be mad if she heard you use that word.”

“She’ll likely fight all her life if she aims to control my stupid mouth. You know that.”

“Yeah,” she said, picking at a loose splinter on the stall. “Will you come over tonight?’

He looked down at her hopefully face, feeling his own heart sink. “I don’t think so. I promised my kin I’d stay with them tonight. Help Bifur get his stock ready for tomorrow and the like.” Not that he resented spending time with his kin – there had not been enough of that, in these recent days – but similarly he hated to disappoint Riva, who seemed to need him near almost always.

“Oh,” said Riva, crestfallen.

“It won’t be long until I can come over again,” he said, desperate to reassure her.

“Sometimes I think you won’t,” she admitted. “That you’ll leave without saying anything.”

“I would never do that,” he promised her, gently as one can only be with futile assurances. “Here: I have something for you.”

She took the carving he offered her, examining its fine features with a practiced eye. By this point in their relationship, she could connect every toy he made to a story he’d told, all the way down to the day it had occurred to him. But with this intricately carved figure of a warrior maiden, she had nothing. “Who is this?”

“She is yours to decide,” Bofur said, folding her little fingers around the toy. “She is no story of mine, but perhaps she can be one of yours.”

“What do you mean?”

“My stories are not so good that they would sustain you for the rest of your life,” he said, shrugging. “I thought it would be fine for you to cultivate your own. I imagine they’d be far better than my rambling.”

“You always say that about your stories,” she said, her brow furrowed over the little toy, as if she could not quite figure out if it was offensive. “You seem to think you have no skill, when it’s clear to anyone that you do.”

“If you say so,” he hedged. “I just thought you might have a better vision for this nameless warrior than I would.”

She said nothing, running her finger over the sword of the woman, and she did not flinch when she gripped the point too tightly.

“And perhaps you might share that story with me when you learn it?” he prompted.

Whatever seemed to have bothered her faded in that moment. She looked mightily relieved, and her regard for the carved warrior-maiden improved considerably. “Thank you, Bofur,” she said quietly.

He shrugged again. “Ah, it was nothing. You should go on home, now. I will see you tomorrow.”

She nodded, but before she turned and fled in the opposite direction, she hesitated, and for a moment it seemed to him that she struggled with something fearful and unspoken. But the moment passed before he could say anything.

With a slight air of regret, he packed up his unwanted shop with his unwanted wares and made his way through the commons to the Three Stone. He had promised Bombur that he would wait for him there tonight, though he had the distinct suspicion that Bombur only asked him to come in a vain attempt to keep him away from Rikke, for whatever good that would do now. It wasn’t cruelty that inspired Bombur to such an act, but fear for his elder brother’s sake. At the moment, most of the dwarves were content to ignore Bofur, but that could change quite easily.

So Bofur took a seat in the back of the tavern and waited, lighting his pipe and watching the goings-on from behind a cloud of thin pipe smoke. He saw his former comrades carrying on as usual, though he did not miss the brief moment of silence that had fallen over the tavern when he had crossed its threshold, and he wondered if he was perhaps not as invisible as they often liked to pretend.

It was difficult not to ruminate bitterly on how easily their esteem had been swayed. He had worked loyally beside them for decades, offering his hand and his shoulder when necessary, often placing himself in harm’s way for their sake, and in turn they had abandoned him for something that should not have even been a transgression to begin with. He was no thief, he had decided. He had stolen nothing. Yet they were content to think so, for whatever reasons.

The door opened, and Bofur nearly started when he saw who stood in the doorway – the wayward princes of Erebor, Fíli and Kíli, clad with weapons and fine armor and grim expressions that did not quite fit their faces. They brightened simultaneously when they saw him.

“Bofur,” said Fíli, taking a seat across the table, Kíli following suit. “I’m relieved we found you.”

“And I’m relieved to be found,” Bofur said easily, blowing out a ring of smoke. “How can I help you esteemed princelings on this fine evening?”

“Oh . . . nothing really,” said Kíli innocently, in a manner that immediately made Bofur suspicious. “Just haven’t seen you in a good long while.”

“I’ve been here, just as always,” said Bofur, raising a brow.

“Not as always, though,” said Fíli. “We’ve heard about your troubles.”

“I might be irritated that you nosy princelings have been prying on my personal life,” said Bofur, tapping the bowl of his pipe, “if I wasn’t already aware that my personal life has become common knowledge.”

“We didn’t mean any harm,” said Kíli, and he seemed utterly dismayed at the possibility. “Just like you said – it’s all the talk in these parts.”

“Wrongly, in my opinion,” Fíli said.

“Aye, there’s the stone truth, that,” said Kíli.

Bofur grinned, though it somehow still managed to be tinged with sarcasm. “Your pity warms my heart, princelings. I can’t imagine that you’re here only to express your pity though.”

Fíli and Kíli exchanged a glance that was heavy with meaning, and though he imagined they attempted to be surreptitious, this was ultimately not lost on Bofur. “We – we heard the cook here is very good,” said Fíli, and Kíli nodded eagerly behind him.

“Aye – a real master, they said.”

“ _I’m_ the one that said that – thirty years ago, in fact – and yet I don’t seem to recall it ever moving you to bring your patronage here before,” Bofur pointed out. He knew enough about Fíli and Kíli to know that they were nearly preternaturally attuned to mischief – when they showed up, it was likely trouble was not far behind.

“No time like the present to try, right?” Kíli offered.

“You two are terrible liars,” Bofur said, amused.

“I’m not lying!” Kíli retorted indignantly. “If you’ll remember, I didn’t actually say anything. It was Fíli, and just me the poor younger brother caught along in his wake.”

“Traitor,” Fíli hissed. “Next time I’ll leave you behind, and when you cry that you never get to do anything because you’re the younger, I won’t give a rat’s arse.”

“Who’s the wretch now?” Kíli whispered delightedly.

Bofur cleared his throat, though he would admit to being amused by their antics. It was a fine enough distraction from the way of things. “As funny as I find this, I find I’m more curious why you’re here. If you could indulge me?”

Kíli was the first to break under scrutiny, “We were looking for you,” he said, picking at his fingers and avoiding Bofur’s searching stare.

“For what reason?” Bofur asked.

Kíli made to answer, but Fíli elbowed him roughly in the side. “This time, you’re not going to give it away. You know how angry he’ll be.”

“So I take it this great mystery involves your uncle, correct?” said Bofur, smirking.

Fíli looked as if he could have happily cut out his own tongue. “Just pretend it’s a surprise when he gets here,” he muttered, threading his hands through his hair and looking so miserable than Bofur felt an odd pang of pity for the young dwarf. He and his brother both might be clod heads, but you could not accuse them of meaning ill.

“I’ll do so, in honor of our long years of friendship,” Bofur said, bowing to them both before raising his glass. “I don’t exactly praise you for your sense, but I commend you for your bravery.”

“Bravery?” Kíli asked. “What’s brave about seeking you out, exactly?”

Bofur took a hearty swig of his ale before putting out his pipe and storing it in his jacket. “If you know of my situation, you know I’m not exactly well loved around here. You might want to be careful, or they’ll paint you with the same brush.”

Kíli scoffed. “Should I care what they think of me? Backwards, stubborn old mules,” he said without bothering to lower his voice. Bofur did not even have time to tell the boy to keep his tone quiet when speaking of others in the room; as if they had been listening, his former comrades craned over in odd unison, suddenly no longer as drunk and merry as they had been only a moment earlier, and Bofur had the uncomfortable feeling that perhaps they had been putting on a show.

“Poor company you keep, Bofur,” said one. “Suppose that’s to be expected.”

“I’d watch what you say about the heirs of Erebor,” said Bofur, with far more bite to his tone than he intended. “Shite on me if you have to, but I won’t tolerate you shitting on them.”

“Ooh, the heirs of Erebor,” said another, to the laughter of the rest. “That dragon-infested dung heap. Appropriate that the heirs of a rotted out tomb would rub elbows with the likes of you.”

“You watch what you say!” Kíli snarled. “You speak of a man who is as good as our kin, and our home! You want to talk about dung, let’s talk about these mountains. Or your brains. Whichever.”

“Kíli!” Bofur hissed. “Lads, we’ve all had a lot to drink. Why don’t we just go back to our corners and continue ignoring each other, aye?”

“You have no right to ask us anything,” said another, his glare a neatly piercing blade. “You have no right to space within our walls, thief.”

Fíli laughed cruelly. “Aye, and what exactly has my friend here stolen? The affection of a woman? A dead man’s widow? Unfortunate that you believe your women are property and that their love is something that can be bought and owned.”

“You – you disrespectful whelp!” the first hissed, and in that moment Bofur knew it was all over. They’re be a brawl, someone would be hurt, and likely Bombur would be made to suffer for his inability to go anywhere without inciting the ire of the citizens. He threw himself between the miners and the princelings just as they threw the first punch, with every intention of wrangling them all into peace with his bare hands if he had to when –

The door to the tavern flew open, and there stood an imposing dwarf with hooded eyes, which scanned the tavern perfunctorily before narrowing, cutting like a furious blade. “All of you – out!” he bellowed with a voice that spoke to the heart of fear.

Amazingly, the miners stood their ground; no doubt assuming that they possessed strength in numbers against the wayward King Under the Mountain. “And who are you to order us anywhere?” one of the braver ones snapped.

“I am Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, ruler of the Lonely Mountain. I may not be king here, but I am not without means and power. So I suggest that you leave immediately, and consider yourself fortunate I don’t cut you from navel to nose for daring to strike my nephews.”

Perhaps it was the threat, or more likely the deadly tone in which he threatened, but Thorin did not have to say it again; the miners took one look at him and positively fled, filing out one by one into the commons and slamming the door behind them. Bofur had been about to follow suit when Thorin spoke again: “Not you.”

With a sinking heart, Bofur followed Thorin to an empty table in the middle of the tavern, taking a seat only after the wayward king has settled himself. He cleared his throat in a futile attempt to assuage the awkwardness. “I’d say your timing is fortuitous, Thorin son of Thrain.”

“That is both the province and burden of those forced to rule,” said Thorin. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“For me?” Bofur said, fishing out his pipe and lighting it nervously. “I – I don’t know what someone like me would have to offer to someone like you. Or how you even know who I am in the first place.”

Thorin considered this. “My nephews have spoken well of you for many years.”

Bofur glanced at the princelings, who were now standing guard by the door, looking quite pleased with themselves. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, considering how many free toys they’ve squeezed out of me during their formative years. Well, let’s hear about this quest then.”

Thorin’s eyes widened slightly. “The quest?”

“I assume you’re here to talk to me about Erebor,” Bofur said, gesturing tightly with his free hand. “It’s all anyone will talk to me about, these days. Your plans make waves.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t have expected my kin to keep their silence,” Thorin said with a hard look to his nephews, who visibly cowered.

 “Ah, well I can’t fault them,” said Bofur. “And it wasn’t all their doing, either. Your other allies have been over the moon about the chance to retake the home of their father’s fathers.”

“I would ask you to join me,” said Thorin, deciding to cut through Bofur’s nervous chatter right to the heart of the matter. “You and your kin. You would be welcome among us.”

Weeks of functioning as little better than a reviled ghost had hardened something in Bofur, and where he might have passed this off with a joke once, now he leaned over the table, his eyes hard as stones. “You know what they accuse me of, don’t you?” he asked sharply. “I am a thief, they say. I’ve stolen a woman away from a man of honor. Would you welcome a thief on your journey to retake your home?”

“I see no thief before me,” said Thorin neutrally. “I see a man of honor.”

“Ha! You don’t look it, my lord, but you jest far better than I ever could,” Bofur said, and he swept the hat off his head, sinking into a mocking bow. “I don’t know why you’d want common dredge like me along on your quest, when I have no skills for warfare, or cunning, or bravery, or in fact anything that would prove useful on such an excursion.”

“I don’t jest,” said Thorin. “You don’t trust my word, so allow me to present you with evidence. You have shown kindness to the children of this place, including my own sister-sons, though there was no incentive or reward in doing so. You gave a young boy who feared he’d never be able to meet with his brother and uncle in battle a chance to find honor and skill that suited his own talents. You stood up for their safety and honor, and the safety and honor of others, without a thought to yourself. Indeed, for all that you bleat about your cowardice, you placed yourself in the way of harm in the defense of another. If you think you have nothing to offer, then you are a fool.”

“I am indeed,” said Bofur, taken aback. “You should know that whatever you’ve heard of me from your nephews is likely an exaggeration,” he said with a hard look toward the door. To Fíli and Kíli’s credit, they had the grace to appear somewhat cowed.

“Even if that were true, I don’t need their endorsement when I have my own eyes, and I’ve seen for myself what you are made of. Only moments ago, you placed yourself between them and those who meant them harm. If you were indeed a coward, you would have run.” He couldn’t be sure, but Bofur almost thought he saw Thorin’s lips twitching in a grin. “I did not see you run.”

“Fine, then. Keep your misinformed opinions. I haven’t given you my answer, and I’m not inclined to give you the one you want,” said Bofur bitterly. “If you know that I am a thief, you know that I love the woman who I am supposed to have stolen, and I will not leave her lightly.”

“Very well,” said Thorin. “But you should know that the ways of Erebor are not the ways of Ered Luin. And if you wanted to live among your kin, and love her freely, you would be able to do so there.”

“Is that right?” asked Bofur sharply. “I may be common, but I’m not a fool. Am I supposed to believe that the traditions of these mountains are not the ways of your mountain, and that as king you would allow a widow to be married to another man, without a thought to her dead husband?”

“Why wouldn’t I? Regardless of my feelings on the matter, the ways of these dwarves is illogical nonsense, though they’d rather not question them because they bear the weight of thousands of years of tradition. But what nonsense – to claim that a woman is married forever to a man that had died. For our kind, where death in battle is common, how would that encourage the continuation of our race? When already dwarven women account for so few of us?”

Bofur could count the occasions where he’d been stunned into silence on one hand, and yet he found himself in a similar predicament now – staring at the lost King Under the Mountain, who it seemed did not have a head full of rocks and honor, but something approaching real sense. “I – I confess I’m surprised that you think this.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re – you’re not common. You’re noble, you’re honorable. I’ve had it drilled into my skull that what I’ve done is the opposite of honorable, and that the dwarves here pursue that elusive honor as if their lives depended on the pursuit.”

“I am indeed concerned with matters of honor,” said Thorin, examining his folded hands. “But I am not so young anymore – and I know the difference between honor and folly. When you’ve seen your people wander the wild lands, starving and suffering, dying terrible deaths in battle, you learn that we are but brief flashes before we are dust, and honor is little comfort when all your kin and countrymen are lost. So while will always strive to comport myself with honor, I . . . I attempt to not let it get in the way of doing right by my people.”

“I’m not one of your people,” said Bofur immediately. “I don’t belong in your halls.”

“I am inviting you,” Thorin said. “I am asking you to be counted among them.”

Bofur was quiet a long moment. Truthfully, he had thought of this with growing frequency as the miserable weeks marched on, but there was a difference between being dreaming of an abstract fantasy and being confronted with it, suddenly clad in all the sharp corners of fearful realism. He was not so stupid not to realize that the journey to Erebor would be perilous, and he would likely die on the way, if he wasn’t eaten by the dragon that might still lurk in its halls.

But the part of Bofur that ignored fear and chose to dream fell in love with the prospect of belonging, of having a home. The dreams of Rikke as his wife and Riva as his child, clothed in happiness and wealth and safety, with a strong roof over their heads filled his mind once again with more force than ever before, and he was left reeling.

Though, he was still a coward and a fool. He sought out the last remaining shreds of defiance that he possessed, for he feared this temptation and his inevitable answer. “I won’t go without my kin,” said Bofur stubbornly. “If you have a place for me, then you will make one for them.”

“Bifur and Bombur, yes?” said Thorin. “They are welcome as well.”

Bofur frowned. “Even though Bombur is not as agile as one of your warriors, and my elder cousin has the business end of an axe sticking out of his head?”

“They are stout of heart, loyal, and presumably willing. I ask no more than that.”

 Bofur fell silent once again, mulling over his last objection, and arguably his most pertinent. “The woman I love is a smith at heart, who has been forced to labor as a maid in an inn, where she is troubled and harassed nightly by those who think her body is theirs to harass. If you can promise me she’ll be allowed to pursue her trade as a citizen of Erebor, I will swear myself to your quest, and my loyalty to you.”

Thorin did not recoil as he expected; instead, he regarded Bofur with something close to interest and pride. He almost seemed to smile. “Is she a fine smith, then?”

“The finest.”

“She is welcome to any trade she chooses. We should be so lucky to welcome a smith of such skill to Erebor once it’s proven safe.”

“I have your word, then?” Bofur insisted.

“You have my word, as ruler of Erebor and King of the Lonely Mountain.”

And at that moment, Bofur saw his dream – Rikke at the forge, flush with happiness, high color in her cheeks, filled with pride for what she had created. He saw the three of them as a family, free to be together in a way that they would always be denied anywhere else in the world. He saw the ability to give them everything that they deserved so amply. He saw the Lonely Mountain as a sacred place where this dream could be forged from the stuff of truth, no longer the useless ether of his imagination. And that hope was what finally decided him.

He knelt and bowed his head – less an affectation of a child imitating their heroes, and more from a true sense of humility, for the mercy of this man who would be his king went beyond his ability to put into words. “Then I swear myself to your quest, and my loyalty to you, Thorin son of Thrain.”

 


	19. Chapter 19

The fifteenth day east of Rivendell, thunderous clouds overtook the sky and a low, ominous sound rumbled in the distance. Whatever foul weather brewed was distant enough that the dwarves observed it with respectful reserve, but the fearful darkness of the sky raised the hairs on Bilbo’s neck, and sent a shuddering chill running down his spine. Perhaps due to his lack of shoes, he could feel the stone under his feet shivering slightly, almost beyond the realm of perception, and he wondered if he was going mad.

In the safety of the Shire, the most you had to fear from a rainstorm was catching a chill. Safety-minded hobbits would remind their children not to stay overlong in the rain, citing many examples of precocious children tearing from one end of the countryside to the other in spite of the wet chill before catching a dreadful illness, slowly wasting away in their beds before expiring tragically. Bilbo had been privy to many similar stories as a young hobbit, but he’d always thought them to be exaggerated. But as he watched the fearful storm churn on the horizon, he suddenly knew those frightful tales bore the shape of truth.

“Do we make camp and wait for the storm to pass?” Dwalin called over the increasing wind, bracing himself against a crag.

Thorin turned toward the eastern horizon, squinting when the clouds over their heads broke; upending a torrent of rain unlike anything Bilbo had felt in his life. He knew full well what Thorin would choose. The wayward King was eager to put more distance between himself and Rivendell to the west, yet as Bilbo watched him struggle to see through the fierce veil of clouds and rain, he wondered if Thorin was not only moved by spite and ill temper, but a desperation to see the carved peak of his home.

“We press on,” said Thorin at last, and with a groan the Company resumed their precarious trek over the craggy paths of the mountain, which had grown slick from the rain.

Bilbo hoped that the brunt of the foul weather would pass them harmlessly by, but the storm seemed to seek them out specifically, hovering over their heads and lashing them with winds so fierce Bilbo feared that he would be thrown from the side of the peak and into the fathomless depths below.

 

There was a sound like the sundering of massive rock, and a flash above their heads that threw every sharp detail of their mountain path into blunt relief, and before Bilbo could brace himself properly the very mountain shuddered and groaned under their feet. His center of gravity shifted up over end, and it was only Bofur’s quick reflexes that saved him, for the miner caught him by his arm and hauled him into his side.

“Stay close, Bilbo!” Bofur shouted over the storm, the flashes of light illuminating his features, his wide fearful eyes, the whiteness of his knuckles as they clutched Bilbo’s arm. “Watch your step!”

It was nearly futile advice, for as the storm worsened so did the shifting of the mountain under their feet, making forward travel nearly impossible. Thorin ordered them to throw their backs against the wall of the path, so as to increase the distance between them and the stark drop, hundreds of feet below, the portent of a violent death. But it made little difference, for the mountain pitched and rocked like a wild beast, and not for the first time, Bilbo considered what it would be like to die so far away from home, where the only mark of his passing would be his broken bones at the bottom of the gorge.     `

There was a mighty crash and the sound of breaking, scraping rock, and in the next moment they were showered with sundered pieces of the mountain, striking their shoulders and arms. Bilbo was overcome by the odd thought that it swept over them like a powerful, furious river, and it would be so easy for them to be washed away.

“Mahal above,” Bilbo heard Bofur say beside him, and he caught sight of the dwarf’s thunderstruck expression as another flash of light illuminated the mountain. “Stone giants!”

And through the veil of hazy rain, he saw it. Two massive figures made of stone, moving with ponderous slowness, hurling chunks of the rain-battered mountain at each other. And as the stone under their feet shuddered again, Bilbo realized – this was no inert chunk of rock that they’d happened upon. This was a giant itself, roused into fury by the storm and whatever offense that its brothers had committed against it.

He saw Thorin wave them ahead and take a flying leap at an outcropping of mountain that did not move and pitch about like a drunken beast, but only half the Company was able to follow him. The rest watched in dismay as the giant took a step and bore them past, with more speed that Bilbo thought possible for such a massive creature. He turned back and saw the form of Thorin grow smaller and smaller until it had disappeared in the haze of the rain, which increased in its fury and rent at the open skin of their faces, lashing them almost to the bone. A foul gust of wind caught Bilbo in the back, and had it not been for Bofur’s firm grip on his arm, he would have sailed over the edge for certain.

There was more thunderous crashing, more sundered rock raining down on their exposed heads, and above it all was the sound of the furious storm. It was utter chaos, and try as Bilbo might to make sense of it he could not, for the giant on which they stood would no sooner stop when one of its brothers would hurl another massive boulder at it and the cycle would repeat again.

And then, something changed. Bilbo was not sure what it was, for his perspective was as effective as an ant’s, for everything was confusing and massive beyond the narrow scope of his sight, hopelessly limited and ineffectual. There was a sound like nails scraping over the jagged rock, and suddenly they no longer pitched about as the giant moved. Instead, Bilbo saw a shelf of inert rock coming closer and closer, and he knew that this was the end.

He thought he could hear Thorin screaming over the chaos, but that was impossible – Thorin might as well have been miles away by now. He felt Bofur’s hand tighten on his arm as the ground under their feet tipped toward the unyielding shelf, coming closer and closer with no sign of stopping. And in a dim part of his mind, Bilbo marveled that Bofur could even think of his promise to look out for Bilbo when they stood on the precipice of their inevitable demise, as if something as small and futile as a firm grip could keep their fate at bay. He envied Bofur for that useless faith, for at that final moment he was filled with nothing but fear so acute that he was not even able to open his mouth and made one final cry of defiance or grief.

Bilbo did not remember the crash as the giant gave way under their feet and threw them into the unyielding shelf, nor did he hear the insane chaos of the storm quiet as soon as the giant fell to pieces and crashed into the gorge below. He was dimly aware of being wrenched out of Bofur’s vice grip and pitching over the lip of the cliff, and the horrible sensation of the world dropping out from under him, leaving nothing but the inevitable fall, the crushing plummet to the earth. He flailed wildly, scrabbling for some slight purchase against the fall when he caught a tiny outcropping. A grunt escaped from between his clenched teeth when the full burden of his weight was brought out against his faltering grip on the side of the mountain. The danger of the giant had passed, but Bilbo was not to be so lucky, it seemed. Should his aching fingers give out at last, that would be the end of him.

The weight of his pack dug into his shoulders, and his feet dangled helplessly, digging at the side of the mountain for even the smallest place on which he could stand until his comrades realized that he was gone, but it was to no avail. He did not dare look down, for he knew full well what waited below: a sharp drop, the last scream as he fell, death by jagged gorge.

He could not have waited much longer than a few minutes, but each second that passed stretched endlessly onward before giving way to the next, so that it seemed to him that he dangled on the cruel face of that mountain for many years before he heard Bofur’s voice over the lessening rage of the storm: “Where’s Bilbo?”

There was a flurry of activity above him, and three horrified faces peered down. Three pairs of eyes widened in unison as they took stock of the situation, and Bilbo felt the mad desire to laugh at how absurd they all seemed. “Bilbo!” they shouted, Bofur and Ori craning down as far as they could, reaching their outstretched arms as close to Bilbo as they could. But he dared not take his hands away from the mountain, for he could hardly bear his weight on two hands – one would surely defeat him.

“Take my hand!” Bofur cried desperately, stretching as if he hoped by effort alone he could extend the reach of his arm and haul Bilbo up over the side. “Don’t let go now, you hear me?”

But his voice was very far away. Bilbo was cold, and his hands hurt so badly. His fingers would snap like the icicles he used to play with as a young hobbit, wielding them like a sword, like a mighty warrior – the desire of all adventurous children. He remembered the way they would shatter on the frozen ground, throwing vicious patterns of light as the sun passed through the shards. He remembered thinking them beautiful – proof that there was still beauty in the world if you knew where to look for it.

And that was his last thought, before the strength of his grip failed. Perhaps he would shatter when he struck ground as well.

But he did not plummet when he expected to. Instead he felt himself being lifted upward, and he thought for one brief moment that he had finally lost his wits. It was likely, he thought dimly. The journey had stretched his already frail mental faculties to their unimpressive limit. But it was a pleasant death, to feel as if he was floating instead of hurling through the air like a chunk of rock scored by the void.

That was when he saw Thorin at his side, clinging to the lip of the cliff with one hand and bearing his weight upward with the other. He distinctly saw Thorin’s powerful hand clenched around his arm, and he knew that in a few hours a bruise would rise there, but oh what a beautiful thing that bruise would be – proof that he had not died, proof of his leader’s strength and bravery, proof that Bilbo would live to have another chance to make himself worthy of such a gesture.

Bofur and Ori pulled him up and over the cliff, and there he stayed until Thorin was brought up as well. He could feel Bofur’s heart beating through the wall of his chest, the dull thudding of it reassuring in a way Bilbo did not know how to articulate. Perhaps his heart beat in the same way – from the force of his relief, more powerful than any storm.

“You’re alright?” Bofur asked breathlessly, patting Bilbo down in search of broken bones and wounds of any other nature.

Bilbo nodded. “I – I am.” He turned to Thorin, who was being hauled to his feet by Dwalin, without knowing quite what to say; only that it would fail to encompass the depth of his gratitude, which had nearly swollen to an impossible size in his chest. He would spend all his life finding new ways to thank Thorin for saving him, for being brave and leaping down without at thought to himself, for gripping him tight and raising him from a painful fate.

But as soon as he opened his mouth, Thorin cut him off, and too late did Bilbo recognize the sharp cast to his features; his eyes hooded and hawk-like with anger. “I should have known better than to believe it might be possible to go even a few days without having to save your foolish life, Mr. Baggins,” he said hoarsely, his voice trembling with some emotion that Bilbo did not recognize.

“I – I didn’t mean to trouble you,” Bilbo stuttered, a hot burst of shame blooming in his gut.

“Aye, what good is that, when you trouble me regardless?” Thorin spat, before turning away to tend to his young nephews, who huddled together, their hands on each other’s shoulders.

Whatever warmth Bilbo had found slowly faded, and he was left shivering from the force of the cold and his increasing shame, which took the shape of a stone at the back of his throat, and made words impossible.

\--

Bofur’s exhilaration sustained him until he made it home, when suddenly the full weight of what he promised washed over him like a furious river, pulling him violently down. He had resigned himself to this quest without any reservations, despite his fear and general cowardice, for he knew that he had no other option, and his life in these mountains was over. But he considered his kin, and knew such shame that it threatened to silence him for the rest of his miserable life.

It was typical, he supposed. He was excitable and foolish – a fool by any reckoning, and the full extent of the word – and he’d been so overcome by feeling as Thorin spoke that he had not considered that perhaps his kin would not wish to leave their lives here behind. They were family, of course, and they often travelled together. But this quest was unlike anything any of them had undertaken before. The journey itself would take many months, and that was without considering how perilous such journeys usually were. Bofur was a tale-teller, and he knew full well what usually happened to adventurers that took to the road with a smile and a dream of fortune. Often, their corpses would litter the road, acting like signposts for the next adventurers to take up the cause.

Bofur closed his eyes, the better to contain his shame. He would ask them if this was what they wished, of course. He wouldn’t presume anything, not when it was his own foolishness that had destroyed their chances of remaining in the Blue Mountains indefinitely. (Not that he wanted to, but Bofur was capable of being realistic at times, and he knew that to remove an option was to make life more difficult.)

But he needn’t have worried. When he explained to Bombur and Bifur what he intended to do, Bombur had only looked at him with an expression that achieved the qualities of steel; a resolution Bofur had only seen twice before. “When do we leave?” he asked simply, looking up at Bofur as if this was the only thing to be said.

Bofur struggled for words. “I – you don’t have to do this,” he said at last. “You have lives here, more than I do, at least. This will be dangerous and – and there’s no promise that we’ll survive to reap the reward.”

“Come now. You didn’t think we’d let you hurry off on some made quest without us, did you?” Bombur said. “If this place is no longer your home, then it is no longer my home. And I will follow you, no matter what lies in store.”

Bofur was moved beyond his meager abilities to express, so instead of babbling uselessly, groping for ineffectual words of thanks, he took his younger brother’s shoulder and smiled, for he knew that this journey would be easier to bear with Bombur’s steady presence at his side. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Well, there’s a shock,” Bombur grinned. “My dear brother, rendered speechless. I could get used to that.”

“You’re a wretch.”

“Aye, I did learn from the best.”

Grinning, Bofur turned to his cousin with the same question, though before he could speak, Bifur signed emphatically, and through this his meaning was abundantly clear. < **Where you go, I go > **Bifur said, hands moving to the shape of those words.

“Are you sure, Bifur?” asked Bofur in a quiet voice. “Likely the journey will be long and dangerous. And . . . well.”

< **This is not the first time I’ve sought my fortune > **Bifur signed impatiently. **< And you know I can handle myself, better than either of you>**

Bofur laughed for what felt like the first time in years. “That’s the bald truth.”

And thus the matter was settled between the three of them, a compact sealed by bond and blood, and devotion keener than a newly sharpened blade. Bofur should have known not to doubt his kin, for in them burned the heart of any dwarf, and they would follow him to the end of the world if Bofur asked. Though he knew he should at least make an attempt to dissuade them from this dangerous mission, he knew it would ultimately be for nothing. Had Bombur come through the door with a mad quest on his mind, Bofur would have resisted similar entreaties, and instead elected to follow his brother wherever he went, even if it resulted in his own death.

But had always known the talk with his family would not be difficult. He knew they would accept his mission as their own, and rise to meet it with more courage and bravery than he could muster himself. There was another that he had to consult before he followed Thorin Oakenshield on his quest to retake Erebor, and more than an inglorious death on the road, he feared her wrath.

What a fool he was! Every step he’d taken toward this inevitable conclusion had been for her sake, for Thorin had offered him means to achieve his vision: safety and security for these two precious people that he loved so deeply, a chance for them to live the lives of their own choosing, to take up the craft of their passions. Indeed, it had been this thought alone that had decided Bofur. Yet now he faced the darker side of this dream, cast in the ugly shadows of reality. He would be forced to leave them. He might never see their faces again.

Bofur sat in front of the fire long after his kin had fallen asleep, watching the undulating shape of flame dance in the hearth. Half the city away, Rikke and Riva slept. He could see it as clearly as if he stood above their beds, watching the reel of their dreams unfurl in the dusty space above their heads.

He might have contented himself with keeping his distance, but every moment that Rikke did not know of his plan felt like an odd kind of betrayal, for she would continue on in her life expecting things to remain as they were, when already he had made a choice that would destroy that flimsy belief. He could not bear to lie to her, even in this odd way, where the only force of dishonesty was their separation, so he stood and pushed outside into the dusty commons, lit only by torches and the forge in the distance, casting a pale red glow on everything that it touched.

He did not bother to keep himself or his purpose hidden, for already he had ceased to be a citizen of the Blue Mountains. Already, his heart had taken its first steps eastward, beyond this stone-wrought cage and into the bare wilderness beyond. He met the disparaging gazes of the guards as he passed with ice water running through his veins. They had succeeded in running him out of their domain – now, in these last days, he would not bother himself with following their strictures.

This odd freedom made him bold.

He knocked on Rikke’s door, and when another night guard paced by him he offered a friendly smile and jaunty wave, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to knock on the door of a known widow in the dead of night, with Mahal knows what on his mind. The guard’s brows pulled low over his dull eyes, and Bofur felt an odd childish satisfaction at the sight of it.

The door opened and there stood Rikke. She was not disheveled from sleep; in fact, the circles under her eyes seemed to be carved from stone, and he realized with a pang of shame that she had not been sleeping, but rather she had remained awake, likely pacing in front of the fire, attempting to find something to keep busy until dawn. She did not seem surprised to see him; indeed, her tired eyes brightened, and she reached for him, her beautiful hands curling around his own as she pulled him over the threshold and shut the door behind her.

Whatever childish glee he had felt in flouting the strictures of her life faded, and shame so acute that it rendered him speechless took its place. He looked down at her heartbreakingly beautiful face and felt his resolve waver. He could not leave her, not now. Not when she was so precious, not when she was so easily hurt and ridiculed, not when their mutual need had grown beyond the scope of control. It was painful enough to be apart one day, to say nothing of that pain should he go months without taking her hands in his, or pressing his lips to the hollow at her throat. Without hearing the sound of her voice, and treasuring the precious things that she said.

“Bofur?” she breathed. “What are you doing here?”

He couldn’t speak, so he pulled her into his arms and held her tightly, committing every blessed line of her to memory; the softness of her, the soft spaces between her ribs, the softness of her hips, the exact scent of her hair – smoke and ale and spice.

He was so attuned to her than the slightest change in her breathing alerted him to her mood, so he should have known that this talent went both ways. She drew back and studied his face, her expression growing so concerned that the cold knot of shame in his gut twisted painfully at the sight of it. “Bofur!” she said, her eyes wide. “What’s wrong?”

Now that he stood before her and bore the weight of his decision, those traitorous words abandoned him. He was left alone with the reality of his situation, and the pain that went beyond words. “I can’t – I don’t – Mahal above,” he trailed off, burying his face in her neck once again.

“Please tell me,” she said, and there was an oddly cool note to her voice. He realized suddenly that she already knew, that perhaps she had feared this would come to pass, and now her only choice was to bear it. His shame deepened beyond his own ability to bear.

“I fear I’ve lost the words,” he said quietly.

“But you haven’t lost the truth. Something’s happened,” she insisted. “You hold me as if this is the last time you will ever be able to do so. I want to know why.”

He gathered his courage, for she was more right than she realized. “In a few days’ time, my kin and I depart with Thorin Oakenshield for what remains of Erebor,” he said slowly. “There are rumors Smaug has left, and . . . well, we mean to see the truth of this.”

She was silent for many moments too long, and he watched the crushing truth overtake her expression until he stared down at what seemed to be a distant stranger wearing Rikke’s features, and not the fierce passionate woman that he loved so deeply. “What do you care of Erebor?” she asked finally, her voice low. “What difference is it to you if the dwarves of the Lonely Mountain retake their home?”

“Because it would make a difference to you,” he said fervently. “I – I’ve thought about it, and this could be the solution to everything that has troubled us!”

“How would you know?”

“I – I spoke to Thorin. I wouldn’t say yes until he promised me that you could have a place in his kingdom, doing whatever it was that you chose. Don’t you see?” he asked her, taking her shoulders in his hands. “In Erebor, under Thorin’s rule, you would be able to smith. You wouldn’t have to struggle in a seedy tavern, tolerating abuses and humiliations and whatever else. You could take up the forge without hiding your face behind a full beard and padded shoulders. You could do what you loved for the rest of your life.”

She was quiet. “This is what decided you?”

“Yes,” he said. “I thought of you, and the life that you deserved. Happiness, security. The freedom to do what you loved more than anything in the world. And I saw that if I did this for Thorin, he would do that for you. So I pledged to follow him, though leaving you will … will be more than I can bear.”

“You are a fool,” she whispered. “I don’t want riches or security. I don’t …” Rikke faltered, averting her gaze, and Bofur knew that she stumbled on a falsehood. “I don’t need to be a smith.”

“You’re lying,” he said. “How many nights have you told me of your dreams, where you labored over the heat of the forge, shaping great and powerful crafts between your two hands? The power to prevent death and take life, infused in the things you create. And I’ve seen your face as you spoke of it – filled with a light that I could never give you, not even if I possessed all the riches of the world.”

“You’re wrong,” she said, but he shook his head.

“I know you,” he said simply. “I’ve come to you in honesty, though . . . though to say the words would take the heart out of me. Don’t lie when I wish that I could.”

“You know that you won’t return,” she said bleakly. “You know that you’ll be killed; if not by the dragon, then by the thousands of unnamed dangers that lie in the roads and the woods, the treacherous hidden places that you so love to speak of in your stories.”

He was quiet for a moment. “I would rather die than live as a coward, knowing that my cowardice denied you this chance to do what you loved.”

“What use will it be?” Rikke demanded. “Suppose you do this – restore Thorin Oakenshield on his throne under the Lonely Mountain, evict the dragon, secure the endless riches of Erebor. Suppose I follow you as I assume you’ll ask to me, only after the danger has passed. What then? Are we supposed to continue in the shadows? Am I supposed to hide that I care for you, and that I l- I care for you far more than I ever did my husband?”

“Thorin has told me there will be no need for that,” Bofur said. “He said he could no more expect you to remain loyal to a corpse than he could to throw yourself on the pyre yourself, for that’s nearly what the dwarves of these mountains expect of you – to live as a walking mausoleum to your departed husband, though your heart lies elsewhere.”

“You’re saying that I could choose you, if the impulse struck me. That we could belong to each other without hiding it.”

“I am!” he said desperately. “Don’t you see? I agreed to this madness for you.”

Rikke said nothing, and slowly she extricated herself from his grip, so that he was left alone with his hands still outstretched to her, an absurd statue.  Behind her eyes he saw a door close, and whatever warmth that he had once beheld faded into endless winter. He looked at her, and a cold stranger looked back – the woman that he’d seen at the market that first day, that stared at him as if expecting him to fail her in every way a man can fail a woman.

“And I suppose I’m to wait, is that it?” she said sharply. “I’m to accept that you made this decision without speaking to me, though it affects me very much, not to mention it will affect my daughter, who has grown very attached to you.”

“I didn’t –“ he began.

She cut him off coldly. “Consider for a moment, that you are killed on the road, and that you never return. What should I tell my child, who loves you so deeply that she thinks of you as her father in all matters but blood? Should I tell her that you were seduced by madness, and ran off to achieve something that was never in your reach to begin with? That you preferred to live in an absurd fantasy that deal with the world as it will always be for people like us?”

He was stung by her words, and he drew back as if she had slapped him. “You think so little of my chances, then?”

“I think nothing of your chances,” she snapped. “This is foolishness. This is – this is a fool’s errand, and if I did not know of Thorin’s desire for myself, I might have believed you concocted this stupid madness all on your own.”

Bofur certainly hadn’t expected her to be pleased with the prospect, but he hadn’t expected her to turn on him so quickly, not after he explained to her that his motivation was entirely for her sake. “Is it madness to want to see you happy?”

“I _am_ happy!” she shouted at him, her eyes bright. “I -- I know better than to expect better, and you should too! This is our lot in life – we must make the best of what we have. We’re not meant for better things. It was beyond my expectation that I would – that I would find someone like you. To have the chance to smith, and to give my daughter a life without want . . . how much worse is it to wish and have your heart broken when it never comes to pass? I know better now.”

And there he saw the heart of her fury, hidden so deeply that he might have mistaken himself for the cause had he not known her as intimately as he knew himself. He saw that life had failed her and love had failed her, and in this moment she had no reason to believe that it wouldn’t fail her again. Slowly, he drew near and cupped her cheek, so tenderly that the anger went out of her, and she closed her eyes and leaned into his hand, as if committing his touch to her memory.

“Have faith,” he said sadly, though he attempted to smile for her sake. “Have a little faith.”

She looked up at him, and the depth of sorrow in her eyes brought tears to his own. “I have forgotten the feel of faith,” she whispered. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

They did not speak again. Instead, he pulled her into his arms and held her tightly, as if he could imprint the feel of her on his very bones, to summon whenever the aching need arose. Tentatively, he brought his lips to hers, and when she yielded beneath him he resolved to show her the feel of faith once again, because he refused to believe that she had never known the fire of it burning in her breast, urging her onward toward better and brighter things. He refused to believe that this was all life had in store for them – balancing their love on the edge of a knife, taking what little they could in a place that refused to give. He believed desperately in the vision of the Lonely Mountain and the fierce woman silhouetted against the forge, and he would undertake an endless campaign of foolish quests and foolish errands if only to ignite that dream in her own heart.

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

-Interlude II: Three Departures-

That night, the Company took shelter in a dry cavern while they waited for the sun to rise and the worst of the foul weather to pass. Thorin forbade them any campfire; instead, he instructed to them to make do without, and to take their sole source of warmth from their blankets, for they were only resting for a few hours at the most, and the caverns in the mountains were well known to be unsafe, filled with creatures that meant ill. Bofur was not exactly convinced of the wisdom of this, for they'd spent the entire day previous lashed by terrible storms, and though he couldn't speak for the others, his own camp things were hopelessly soaked.

In the end, it didn't matter. Thorin called to him once they'd ascertained that the caves were suitable for a brief rest, and ordered him to take the first watch, so that the rest of the Company could sleep without fear.

He was bone tired, and still harrowed from the Company's near miss earlier, but after briefly entertaining mutiny Bofur ducked his head and set up his things at the entrance of the cave, resigning himself to a night with no rest, filled with unmet vague anxieties. Indeed; it was likely he wouldn't have been able to rest anyways, for his thoughts spun in frantic reels that were unaffected by the relative peace of their shelter from the storms. He saw massive figures moving in the dark, felt the cracking of their limbs in his own flimsy bones, his own tender ears.

He snuck a glance at Bilbo, who had curled up on his blanket facing away from the rest of the Company, staring even deeper into the gloom. Bofur knew he had been stung by Thorin's hard words, yet he resisted any comfort or reassurance on the matter, preferring instead to ruminate over Mahal knew what in preoccupied, hurt silence. When Bofur clapped him on the shoulder and reminded him that it would all be right, that their leader had only feared for his safety and anxiety had whittled his words into sharp things, Bilbo had turned away as if Bofur had not spoken at all. Perhaps he hadn't, now that he thought on it. Perhaps nothing he said registered to any of his comrades and kin, and especially not the young hobbit, whom he suspected at times spoke an entirely different language.

Slowly the Company fell into troubled sleep, most of them too exhausted to sprawl about as they usually did and snore until every creature in the vicinity knew that sleeping dwarves were among them. No; this was preoccupied, fearful sleep that hovered just on the harsh edge of waking and gave no true rest to its owner. As he watched his comrades, lifting his gaze every now and then to the impenetrable darkness beyond, he thought perhaps he had gotten the fine edge of the deal, for he would not be burdened with half-sleep when it was time to continue on; the injustice of coming so close to true rest only to have it taken away. Instead his travelling companion would be mere exhaustion, and he was well acquainted with it now. He had come this far with it dogging his steps, making its paradoxical rest in his weary bones.

In these sleepless days, he felt older – far older than he ever had in his admittedly long life. He was not such a young dwarf anymore, though he'd always been able to put age in its place with a smile and a light step, a relatively unburdened heart. But each step east weighed on him as heavily as the full burden of the mountains they sought, and he could find no rest from it.

It might have been regret, for the heart is an irrational creature. Though he knew there was a long litany of logic attached to his decision to pursue the lost kingdom of Erebor, and the lives of those he cared for would drastically improve should he succeed in this quest, he gained no immediate comfort from these facts, for he had left his heart behind.

There was no comfort in the past, either; his brush with death made every happy memory he'd shared with Rikke and Riva seem even more remote, so he was left with only the most painful of them all, the very last one he had shared with them before he had turned his back and taken those first, impossible steps.

_Riva refused comfort, and in turn refused to offer forgiveness. In her mind, there was no purpose in it; Bofur had betrayed her when he'd cast his gaze east and made plans in earnest to leave her behind. Appeals to logic were useless; she was not comforted by the prospect of a better life, or a kinder home. She screamed at him like she had the day she'd fallen down the shaft, but unlike then her fury did not wane. And though he hoped his impending departure would soothe her anger, he found he could not have been more wrong._

_In fact, it was Rikke who insisted her daughter join her as she bid him farewell, for though she refused to speak of it again, Rikke knew this would perhaps be the last they ever saw of one another._

" _Goodbye, Riva," Bofur said, kneeling to her level. She averted his gaze, her lips mashed together in a tight, furious line. He saw that her eyes were bright with tears, and he felt the heart go out of him. "It won't be long, dear heart."_

" _You don't know that," Riva ground out bitterly. It was the first thing she'd said to him in nearly a week, ever since she'd learned of his intentions._

" _But I believe it, and so must you. Have I ever told you of the faith of the wretch? He toiled night and day, through impossible forests and insurmountable peaks, in search of his home, and it was only his faith that saw him through to the end, whole and hale as I am today. So faith has power, where nothing else does. Faith would see me through the darkest places. Your faith would turn the road beneath me to gold."_

_Riva said nothing, biting her trembling lip so hard that it bled._

" _It won't be long," he said again, and he was so desperate to offer comfort to her that he grasped wildly for anything she might find lovely or encouraging. "I'll have so many stories for you when I come back, twice as many as I do now, filled with every fantastic thing—"_

" _I don't want your stories!" Riva shouted at him, her little fists balled at her side, shaking with fury. "I don't want anything from you – not your toys, nor your stories, nor you yourself! I'm glad you're leaving, really! I'm so glad for it I could choke! It'll be better now that you're going, so I never have to see your horrible face or hear your stupid stories ever again!"_

_Exhausted of her rage, she stared up at him as if he had been the one to strike her with words so foul they curdled in the brisk spring morning, as if he had been the one to wound her so deeply. Abruptly she spun on her heel and tore back toward the safety of the mountain, but before she vanished beyond the gates he thought he heard a choking sob echo through the wild, altogether out of place here._

_And he figured that he deserved her hatred, for despite his reasons he was leaving her, and she was right to find that unforgivable, after everything she had survived._

_Rikke, for her part, was somber as a judge. "I apologize for my daughter," she said quietly. "She is young."_

" _Aye, it's all right. I've said worse as a child."_

" _If you say," said Rikke, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. "Likely she doesn't understand how you could be doing this for her, when it causes her so much grief."_

" _I hope that you do," said Bofur, and he held out his hands. After a moment, she took them, holding them so tightly that it might have caused him pain, had it been another who held him so._

" _I do," she told him, looking away so that he might not see that her eyes had become bright. "Only I know I may never see you again."_

" _Have faith that you will," he insisted. "Those stories have some truth to them, you know."_

" _We shall see," she said faintly._

_He drew her close in one last embrace, and she kissed him as if this was indeed goodbye and not brief separation that was expected to end with his return. For they had made their plans and eked out their intentions, and he would fight to his last breath to bring them to pass. Rikke and Riva had no reason to believe, so in this he would give them one. He would build them a home, and he would find them their faith._

_He pulled away before the heart went out of him, for the longer he remained, the more difficult it became to extricate himself and take those first unfeeling steps. He caught sight of his kin down the road a ways, for they had waited for him to say his goodbyes. Hefting his mattock against his shoulder, he set out to catch them, though not with one last glance behind him. She stood like a statue herself; shoulders stiff and straight, her beautiful face remote as the peaks above, her eyes cold as precious stones._

And thus was Bofur's folly, he mourned. That months later and miles east he was left with the realization that this journey would not end so easily – that there might not be the kingdom that bore the shape of his hope waiting at the end, and that their journey was not a straight line, but a wandering loop comprised of sleepless nights and aching bones and heartache.

It was not Bofur's way to ruminate on suffering; he preferred to inject a dour mood with a dash of joy, or failing that at least a bit of mischief. But there was no joy or mischief in this dark, dusty cavern. There were old memories that remained as bitter as they day they'd been cast, and newer memories of his comrades and kin wheeling over a slick mountainside, only a breath away from falling to their doom.

It was only after he tasted blood blunt on his tongue did he realize he'd bitten his nails to the quick. He hastily wiped them on his breeches just as he saw a small figure creep past the alcove where he made his watch, doing their honest best to remain silent. After a moment, he realized it was Bilbo.

"Bilbo? Where are you going?" he whispered as he leapt to his feet. The hobbit turned to face him, and despite the low light Bofur could discern the steely bitterness that had settled on Bilbo's features like a fine mist, turning that otherwise expressive face into impassive stone.

When he spoke, it was with a different voice. "Back to Rivendell."

"Wh—no!" Bofur said, rushing forward, and Bilbo took a reflexive step back. "No, you can't! You're a part of the Company now."

"Am I?" Bilbo demanded. His hands shook over his walking stick, like leaves in a storm. "You heard Thorin. I'm a burden. I trouble him, regardless of what effort I make. What use am I here, when for every step I take you must take two: one to bring you east, one to mind my own?"

"So you don't know the ways of the wanderers," Bofur said, smiling. "That's no trouble, not really. And I'm happy to keep an eye on you, Mr. Bilbo."

"That's not – that's not the point!" Bilbo hissed. "I'm a half-step away from breaking my neck at every turn. If you'd left me behind, likely you'd have reached Erebor by now, and don't think that's escaped your leader."

"That's not true," Bofur argued. "Could you be blamed for the storms? For the orcs and – and everything else? Of course not. Like it or not, you've got a place here. You're part of us."

"But I'm not!" said Bilbo furiously. "I'm no good at this life, and I never will be. I'm not like you, not like any of you. You're used to this foul business - scrapping on the edges, eating mud and dirt every day, running for your lives from every other foul thing that would want to see you dead, never settling in one place, not belonging anywhere!"

His words echoed in the dusty cavern far after he'd fallen silent, and Bofur could see that he regretted his words the moment he'd spoken them. Perhaps he'd known it would come to this. For all his attempts to include the hobbit in their world, Bilbo was as conspicuously different from them as mountains are from forests. Bilbo was full of bluster and irritation, oftentimes, but at his core he had believed in their cause. At the center of things, he had once believed in them.

"You're right," said Bofur distantly, and he turned to observe his comrades and kin, sleeping fitfully in the watching darkness. "We don't belong anywhere."

Bilbo struggled to put his dismay into words, and this was what broke Bofur's heart; that he should care enough to regret the truth, that he should struggle to wrangle it in more agreeable terms. But Bofur did not give Bilbo the chance to do this, for there was no need. He understood the need to find happier places, to return to better times, so he smiled at the hobbit and clapped him on the shoulder as was their custom, though this time it held the shape of farewell.

"I wish you all the luck in the world," Bofur said, and he smiled as best he could. "I really do."

Bilbo averted his eyes and made great study of his feet, padding nervous patterns into the cavern dirt, but when Bofur laid his hand on the hobbit's shoulder did he look up. There was an apology in that young gaze, for which Bofur understood so well. There was shame – for being unable to see their mad quest through – and regret.

And this would have been goodbye, had fate not intervened. For Bofur caught sight of Bilbo's elven sword, glowing blue in the darkness, and too late did they realize what it meant. With a raucous howl, the floor beneath them gave way, and thirteen dwarves and a hobbit hurtled through the watchful dark.

* * *

Riva held a damp rag to her face, staring daggers into the hearth. The tender skin under her eye smarted terribly, where only moments before her cruel mistress had struck. But rather than suffer this indignity silently, Riva had retaliated; not with pranks or tricks or mischief, but with a slap of her own that possessed so much force that Dari's head had snapped to the side, the wrinkled skin of her cheek already an angry red.

Mama would not be pleased. She had not yet finished her apprenticeship, and the sewing mistress had made it abundantly clear that if she ever showed her face in her shop again, she would call the guards and have her skin flayed off in tender strips. Riva hadn't believed the threats – for all her cruel bluster, her bark was far worse than her bite – but she also hadn't wanted to tempt the woman into action. Without a backward glance, she tore through the commons back home, to wait in the relative darkness until Mama returned.

What miserable months these had been. Worse than before. For in those bleak times before Bofur, she had never known what having a family could be like. She had not been tormented by the knowledge that there was someone she could trust aside from her mother, someone who would brave their fears and save her, someone who would care for her as if she was his own. Now she was left with that cruel knowledge, that she had loved and lost, and that she had said goodbye with the most inappropriate, cruel words possible.

Maybe Dari was right. Maybe she was a monstrous child. Willful, terrible, stubborn, cruel. If Bofur died, she'd deserve it.

But poor Mama! For she put up a brave face, just as always – indeed, sometimes Riva entertained speculation that her mother was made of stone, and should you cut her open you'd find the blood of the earth flowing through her veins, her bones made of mountain-stuff, her back straight as those unyielding peaks. But in the late hours of every night, after Riva pretended to fall asleep, she crept out of bed and peeked into her mother's room. She never slept; instead, she sat straight at the edge of her bed, her hands folded primly in her lap – just as she'd sat when she was a lord's daughter, or as she had as a warrior's wife. Sometimes, Riva would catch her mother hunched over the washbasin, retching pitifully, her strong hands curling on either side of it.

From what she could gather – which was far more than anyone gave her credit for – the neighbors' campaign against Mama had more or less ended. Now that she was alone and miserable again, they did not shun her as they had before. But neither did they accept her as they might have. In their eyes, she was a tarnished woman, comprised of low morals; the epitome of weakness and filth. And while they were stiff and polite, they did not seem inclined to forget Mama's transgression.

Riva found them repulsive, so she'd taken to terrorizing them in increasingly destructive ways. She made friends with the mousers and left dead rats in their doorways, smeared garbage on their walls, desecrated their holdings. She stole from the merchants who had made Bofur's life such a miserable affair – snatching their wares and hiding them in other stalls, and watching with glee when arguments broke out. She knew that Bofur would lecture her and ply her with stories of willful, cruel children who met justified ends, but Riva's anger went beyond weak entreaties and parables.

As furious as they made her, however, Riva did not go beyond mild terrorizing. She was angry, but she refused to be evil as Dari claimed she was. Mama might not care – indeed, her mother's fury could be great when aroused – but Bofur would be disappointed. And though he was very attached to poetic justice, she knew he would not be pleased if she did much worse. So she made mischief and comforted herself with the mild discomfort she wreaked – grinning as her neighbors muttered about the vandals, smirking as the merchants plotted against each other.

Her poor, sick mother. There were some days where Riva burned with fury, where she nursed mutiny in her heart so large that she didn't know what to do with it all. How could Bofur leave them, when they loved him so? How could he set out without so much as a thought or backward glance, when she thought of him every day, and missed him so badly that it felt as if he'd taken a part of her heart with him?

But she'd remember his silly stories and his sweet smoke scent, and her anger would evaporate. She would remember that he had saved her, though he had been afraid. She would remember what it felt like to be borne out of the darkness, safe in his arms. She would remember that she had said horrible things to him, and if he died on the road, those horrible things would be the last words she'd have ever said to him.

The door rattled, and Riva jerked away from the hearth, dropping the wet rag in her lap. There was a knife on the table, and she lunged across the room before snatching it up, holding it at the ready just as Mama had taught her. But the intruder was only Mama herself – the shape of her shadow as warm and familiar as anything.

Mama passed into the sphere of firelight, and when Riva caught sight of her face, she drew back in alarm. Her left eye was swollen so badly that it was nearly closed, and her split lip dripped blood onto the collar of her dress. Bruises mottled her cheekbones, like splotches of dark paint.

"Mama!" Riva cried, dropping the knife and snatching the rag before rushing to her mother's side. "What happened?"

But Mama said nothing. She rushed to the washbasin in her room, where Riva heard her retching so badly that she feared her mother would choke. Her fingers scrabbled desperately on either side of the bowl, and when she drew back, her face was an alarming shade of red.

"What happened?" Riva said again, clutching Mama's hand.

"There was a fight," Mama said distantly "It got out of hand."

"Did you pull your knife on someone?"

"Only after they struck me," Mama said, plucking the wet rag out of Riva's hands and pressing it to her eye, collapsing onto her bed with a ragged sigh.

Riva followed suit. "Did you hurt them?"

Mama glanced at Riva, her good eye penetrating to Riva's bones. "I am possessed with the feeling that you hope I did."

Riva did not acknowledge this. "Did you?"

"Aye, I did."

Riva considered the situation from its many angles – her mother's increasing exhaustion, the bruises she would find mottled on her arms in the shape of a human hand, how she would jump when Riva dropped a bowl or cried out too loudly. And she knew that her mother lied to her, that it hadn't been a fight that had wounded her so badly, but instead had been the hands of her proprietor, who had been increasingly possessed with the sense that she belonged to him. Perhaps she'd dropped a tray or been sick during her shift, but the result was clear enough, and thus so was their circumstance.

Riva got on her knees and crawled behind her mother, pulling at the braid and combing through her lovely hair with her fingers. Unbraided it reached down past her waist, and Riva wondered how many years it had taken to grow it to such a length. But just as Riva reached for the brush, Mama took her hand. "Bring me the knife," she said instead.

"What?!"

"Bring it to me now."

Trembling so badly that she could hardly walk, Riva crept to the table and picked up the knife, which had become hopelessly ugly in the light of its new purpose. But when Mama reached for it, Riva held it behind her back, for she knew that steely look in her mother's eye, and she knew fully well what it meant. "No, Mama! Don't do it!"

"Hush, dear one. Hair grows back."

"Please don't do it! Please!"

"Riva," said Mama, her voice like a blade. "Give it to me."

Biting her lip, Riva passed the knife to her mother pommel first, just as she'd been taught, and with one sure motion Mama gathered up her thick hair in one hand, curling around her fist like auburn silk. With an impossibly graceful motion, Mama cut it off as if it was worthless, and when she had finished, her mangled strands reached only to her shoulders. She braided them quickly, her fingers fast and sure.

"Now come here," Mama said, and this time her voice was gentle as a song.

"Why are you doing this?" Riva whispered.

"Because we are leaving."

And suddenly, Riva understood. Mutely, she knelt before her mother and bit her lip when Mama cut off her hair – which had not been nearly as long as her mother's, but it was silky and beautiful, her one source of pride. She knew she was an ugly child, and her lovely hair was all she had to her name. But she submitted to her mother's ministrations without making a sound, until she felt cold air brush against her naked neck.

"Gather your things, Riva. Be quick."

She did as she was told, rushing to her room and throwing her things into a pack from under her bed. Instinctively, she left the dresses behind in favor of the tunics and breeches, the jerkin that her mother had given her without a word the day after Bofur had left. She glanced at the shelf of toys Bofur had made her in happier days, and before she could talk herself out of it, she tossed them into her pack too; the carving of Ayla, the unnamed warrior maiden, the doll she'd purchased with her first wages.

But when she crept back to her mother's quarters, she watched silently as Mama wrapped a thick piece of linen around her chest, binding it flat, before strapping into a tunic that padded her shoulders, gave her a stout bearing. She shrugged into a leather jerkin she'd kept from those first days, deceitful days, when she'd labored as a smith and gone out with her comrades, scouting and fighting, just another man to them. Last, she bound a false beard to her face, so had Riva not known her mother for the soft shape of her, that familiar outline, she might have thought a true man stood before her.

She noticed Riva in the doorway, and crossed the room in two paces, taking her by the shoulders and holding her tightly. "From this moment forward I am your father and you are my son. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Ma—yes, father."

"Good. Women of our kind are never seen beyond our holdings, and where were are going we will need to be swift."

Riva was silent a long moment, and as she stared at her mother, slow understanding dawned. "We're going to Erebor, aren't we?" she whispered. "To find Bofur."

Something steeled in her mother's eyes – resolve that went to the bones of the matter, that could have raised mountains out of darkness. "Aye," she said, her grip tightening on Riva's shoulders.

And Riva might have mistaken that fervor for faith, had she been younger.


	21. Chapter 21

Bofur was no stranger to falling from great heights – his days as a miner had afforded him that unfortunate experience – but that did not make the actuality any more pleasant that it might have been otherwise. Instead, he choked on the memory of whistling through the dark, a violent scream tearing past his raw throat, flailing wildly for purchase, knowing full well what waited below, though this time he was hounded by the horror that now he shared his fate with thirteen others, who might have been saved had he been paying attention.

But the slope of the chasm evened out in such a way that broke their fall, and the Company was spared any serious injury. They crashed into a haphazard pile of limbs and camp blankets, each of them shouting incomprehensibly through the outward din. Bofur was aware of Bilbo just above him, rolling to his feet before the rest of the dwarves could properly extricate themselves. The raucous howling grew even closer as Bofur pushed Nori aside and sprang upright, but far too little, too late.

In those unclear seconds after their fall, they had allowed an unseen enemy to flank them. For all their prowess, the young princelings fell first, a horde of goblins ripping their weapons out of their hands and tossing them away. The warriors among them made a fair effort – indeed, Dwalin actually tossed aside at least five before the goblins brought him down. Though possessed with all the fire and fury of his race, Bofur was nowhere near the skill in martial matters as the warriors, and he was subdued by three goblins, who forced him face-first into the shoddy wooden platform, sending him sprawling.

At the sight of this, Bifur let out a terrible shout, and failing to produce his boar spear, he flew at the goblins who had subdued Bofur like the battle-mad, his hands curled into feral claws. He sank his wild fists into one and sent it screaming over the platform and into the gaping darkness below before the rest of the goblins beat him into submission.

"Bifur, don't!" Bofur cried out above the din as his elder cousin thrashed against his attackers, his eyes wide with desperation and fear – not for himself, but on behalf of his kin. Bofur's fear was not grounded in logic, for in all matters Bifur could handle himself better than most. But Bofur remembered the long weeks of recovery after the orc and the axe, the air so thick with the cloying stench of blood and rust and rot, and those memories defied practical knowledge.

He was angry and terrified, and he wished at that moment that he was seven feet tall and strong enough to fight off the teeming horde of goblins himself before slinging his kin and comrades onto his shoulders and bearing them back into the relative safety of the mountainside. He'd told enough stories to that effect – what a horrible truth, then, that these wishes would always be beyond his reach. He was no warrior or protector; among the Company, he amounted to little more than dead weight, no longer good for the occasional boost in morale, for even his stories had lost their verve in these last weeks. What use was he with his mattock, long gone down the chasm at this point? What use was a fine story in the face of these foes?

"To the King!" the goblins cried, jabbing their cruel fingers into the dwarves, forcing them along at such a pace that Ori stumbled on the platform, and the lad was only saved from a long fall by his captors, who gripped him around the arm so tightly that it elicited from him a high yelp of pain.

"Get your hands off him!" Nori snarled, thrashing wildly, his fine braids half undone and sticking out in every direction. But the goblins shoved him into his brother with force unprecedented, and briefly reunited as they were, Nori fell silent.

Subdued in body if not spirit, the dwarves were ushered along to the king their captors had spoken of. It was at this moment – nearly choking on his fury and despair – that Bofur noticed Bilbo was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

Riva craned upward until she was nearly flat on her back, and clung tightly to her pony with her knees. Above her the sky loomed endlessly, the clouds slowly shifting into wonderful shapes - here, a warrior; there, a cat - the sun peeking through like a maiden through a veil in one of Bofur's stories. Soon the sky would darken and a thousand thousand stars would decorate the heavens like tiny glimmering jewels set in black stone. This was a darkness she could abide - not the choking depths of the mountain, air whistling past her, the fear of the inevitable bottom, but a darkness that spoke to freedom. There were no limits to this endless, wonderful sky. She could stare at it for all her life and never see the same configuration of clouds, colors, shapes.

It had been two weeks since they departed from Ered Luin, and still the sky above her held such fascination that she could hardly tear her eyes away.

It wasn't as if she had never seen it before in her life. But the occasions in which she had opportunity to stare above her were few. In fact, she could count them on one hand; with three fingers, actually. So the days of nothing but sky above them passed as no others had before, and if she was not careful, her thoughts would spiral far away until she imagined them to hover high above the earth, holding court among the stars.

"Boy!" called Rikke, her voice sharp. "Don't do that."

"Sorry, M- Father," Riva said, lurching upright and clutching the reins of her pony. "I wasn't going to fall."

"I've seen children do what you were doing convinced of the same, and yet they fell regardless. I don't wish something to happen to you, understand?" said Rikke.

"Sorry," Riva said again, studying her dirty hands. "I can't help it."

"We both know that isn't true."

Riva made a frustrated sound in the back of her throat. "I can't! How do you keep from staring above you? With everything so vast and wide and wonderful?"

Rikke's stern expression softened as she considered her daughter, her eyes oddly bright from beneath the rim of her leather cap. "Perhaps because this is not the first time I've walked under cover of open sky."

Riva couldn't imagine her mother losing her thoughts in the spaces between the stars, even when she was younger. "With the other smiths? Before . . . they caught you?"

"Aye."

Neither spoke again, and they continued on as the sky slowly faded to orange, then red, then darkened over their heads to the vast ebony that she loved so well. She knew of the time her mother had spent as a smith, clad much like she was now, her fair face halfway hidden by the false beard she had stitched from the long ends of her own hair. It explained much, as there was much to consider; that at times her mother seemed more at ease wearing the clothes and skin of a man, with a sword and hammer strapped fast to her waist, armored with padding to broaden her shoulders and flatten her breasts. In fact, when Riva looked at her out of the corner of her eye she would startle briefly, for her beautiful and beloved mother was as unfamiliar to her as the strangers that populated this world.

She considered her own disguise briefly, for there wasn't much to consider; she had the traditional cut of a boy dwarrow, short to the neck with two small braids ornamented with her family's mark. Her red and brown tunic had been stiff on the day they set out two weeks ago, but now it had softened to accommodate her limbs, clinging to her almost like a second skin. In the mountain, she might have had to wear new dresses for months before the fabric eased, and she knew this to be another miracle of the open world beyond them.

They had sold nearly all of their belongings to afford their ponies, all except for the things they brought with them to Erebor. Riva's pony was named Button, and she was an excitable creature that startled easily and could be difficult to control, for she was often finding new fascination in her constantly changing surroundings. Rikke's pony Lindy mirrored its rider's affect; stern and solemn, and altogether unaffected by most intrusions, including loud noises that would inspire fear in any other creature, man or beast. They were good mounts, Rikke had assured Riva; young and strong, and more than able to bear the journey east.

Riva thought back to their home in the mountain, her long days spent in the dark, with the cover of endless stone above them. And she thought that she never wanted to return, for who could resist this open sky, the feel of the cool summer air on her face, the sound of the tress rustling in the slight breeze. And the stars - forever, the stars. Who could bear to be apart from the stars?

It took her nearly an hour to realize that they had not stopped to break for camp when dusk had fallen, and instead they continued on. The stars were bright, and the moon shone down on them like a second, paler sun. And so continued Riva's love of the free outdoors, the wild places of the world.

"Were we going to stop for the night?" she called up to Rikke.

"Not yet," said Rikke. "We're nearly to Bree."

"Bree?"

"A village of Men. They're generally good to our kind, but best to be wary regardless."

"Our kind? You mean women?"

Rikke did not laugh, and though she rode ahead, Riva could feel the chill in her stare. "Dwarves."

Riva registered the wordless rebuke and resolved to do better, for now that they were about to enter civilization once again, their ruse was more likely to be discovered, and if such a thing was to happen, Riva did not want to be the cause for it. She resolved to forget her name, and all the long years she had responded to it, and instead ingrained into her memory the new name her mother had given her.

Night had fallen truly by the time they reached the gates of Bree. Though it was late, Rikke knew the words to speak to the gatekeeper, and thus they were allowed to pass into the city unimpeded. And thought Riva had grown quite comfortable with the wide open wilderness, these cities of Men were far stranger than she had ever seen in her admittedly short life. How wonderful it was, too; their homes built directly under the stars, instead of packed into endless darkness of the mountains she'd grown to hate. And everything was so big! Homes stacks two or three times, one floor after the other, and streets as wide as twenty men.

Rikke's former proprietor was a man, so she was used to their staggering size, but she had never been any place with such a vast accumulation of tall people. She wondered if being closer to the sky afforded them with a freer temperament than those of her own race, who took to mountains and battles and other dark places, who were happier the closer to the earth they clove. But Riva remembered Bofur's story of the sunlight girl, made of wind and stars, and she felt an odd kinship to her, and to him. Did he perhaps feel the same way she did, looking out at the wide, beautiful world, full of hidden places and secrets, stories and songs?

Though her mother stood a good few heads shorter than the men they came across on the street, she did not lift her chin to meet their gazes, and after a moment Riva realized it was a matter of pride -perhaps pride that had been bred into her blood through race. She would meet the gaze of these strangers, yes, but she would do so on her own terms. She struggled to affect the same.

It was only after watching Rikke did Riva realize their line was of Durin's, and their lineage was far greater than their common life had afforded them so far. How easy it was to forget in these days.

"Where are we going?" Riva asked, struggling to keep pace.

"Lower your voice," said Rikke, already adopting the gruff tone of a man. "There is an inn nearby. We will rest there, and provision properly so that we may make the next part of this journey without trouble."

"What is the next part?" wondered Riva.

"We journey through the Lone Lands," said Rikke quietly. "Dangerous lands. And over the Misty Mountains. It is likely we will not see civilization again until we reach Erebor itself. And even then, there is greater chance of a dragon that waits for us."

A cold stab of fear shot through Riva's heart. "Why do we make this journey, then?"

"Because we do not have any other recourse," said Rikke grimly. "Our only path ahead lies east."

Riva nodded, stoutly pushing the fear away. If her mother could look at their dangerous road with a steely gaze and a straight back, then so could she. Without another word, she shadowed her mother, careful to imitate her mother's stocky, powerful gait as best she could.

The Prancing Pony was far brighter and cleaner than the Three Stone or Crooked Hammer, or any other inn Riva had ever known in her short years. When she and her mother pushed into the room, they were met immediately with a air pungent with the stench of watery ale and a chorus of songs, each verse more cheerful than the last. The atmosphere pleased her, but the songs were bland and stupid. She'd heard far better from Bofur, who possessed far more skill and modesty in equal measure than these men.

At that moment, surrounded by carousing men and her increasingly distant mother, she missed Bofur so badly that unbidden tears rushed to her eyes, and she pressed her fists to them, the better to stem their flow. She was a young man, now, and it was best not to draw attention to her true self through sniveling.

But Rikke caught sight of her, and instead of leveling a rebuke, she gently squeezed Riva's shoulder, and there was more comfort in that simple gesture than Riva knew how to return.

"Wait here," said Rikke, leading Riva to a corner nearest the entrance. "I will find us a room."

"But -"

"Do not fear. I will not be far," she said, gesturing to the bar. "Just there, see? Watch our things and keep your blade close."

How grim was her mother, hammered from steel, for she very obviously thought that reminding her daughter to use her blade if threated was a comfort. But Riva nodded seriously, and with that Rikke left to speak to the proprietor of the inn - a jovial, portly man who swept the floor behind the bar as if he could think of no happier undertaking.

From her vantage point in the corner, she watched the goings-on curiously, her hand hovering just at her side, where her blade was sheathed. But these men posed no threat to her - in fact, she realized they must be greatly accustomed to Dwarven folk, for they barely afforded her a second glance before returning to their watery ale and silly songs, for which she was thankful.

But there was one man who did not avert his gaze after a cursory glance; he stared at her as if he had never seen a creature bearing her shape in his life, be it man or beast. He wasn't so strange himself, she thought as she stared right back, her hand curling into a fist around the pommel of her blade; he was of young to middling years, she supposed, with filthy fair hair that he had swept back with a loose cord and a face weathered by many days out in the wild. His armor was made of padded leather and well worn, scuffed at the shoulders and knees. A fierce scar cut down from his brow across the bridge of his nose to the opposite cheek, giving him a wild, dangerous affect. Observing this, she surmised that among men he was worldly and skilled; who was he, then, that he should find a dwarf so strange?

With a jolt of panic, she suddenly realized that he must have seen her for what she truly was; a dwarven girl attempting to pass as a boy, travelling with her mother who strove to pass as a man. She quickly averted her gaze and made great study of the dirty floor, but it was too late; the man rose from his seat and approached her, smiling in a friendly manner that immediately made her suspicious.

"Ho there," he said. "Might I know your name?"

"No," she said. "I'm not to speak to strangers."

"Perhaps If I give you my name, I won't be such a stranger, then."

"That's not how it works," she bit back, fixing him with an irritated glare, careful to keep her chin low.

"You are quite fearsome for a child," he said easily. "I expect no less from the stout folk to the west."

"Do you think flattery will get you what you want?" she said, narrowing her eyes. "You must think I'm a fool."

"I think what I said before; you are very fearsome. And I assure you that I mean you no trouble. If it will ease your mind, you may call me Bay, and I might call you …?"

She did not rise to the bait. "Bay? That is not a real name."

"Sure it is, as it's mine."

"It could not be the name your mother gave you. Or perhaps it is, and you descended from fine, watery folk." She smirked. "Was your father a lump of seaweed? A sly piece of driftwood, perhaps? A school of fish?"

"Yes, go on and have your fun. I would have been happy to produce my kin for your interrogations, but they are very dead, and have been these last twenty years, so I'm afraid you must take me at my word."

The thought of this odd man wandering the world without kin made her suddenly sad; he seemed a nice enough sort, despite the stupid name. She was abruptly guilty for being so rude. "I am sorry," she said, cowed. "My name is Sudri."

"A noble name," said Bay. "Belonged to many fine dwarves before you, I imagine."

"Aye," she said nervously. It had only been her name for a few short weeks, and she had not yet grown accustomed to bearing its weight.

"And are you alone here, Sudri?"

"My father, Nordri, is bartering for a room just there," said Riva, pointing across the room to where Rikke stood, currently in fierce negotiation with the proprietor.

"Also a fine name."

"I am thrilled you think so."

The man named Bay let out a bark of laughter, which positively danced in his strange, grey eyes. "You are very fearsome with your tongue for a lad so young."

"Aye, so you've said. Now that we are acquainted, I hope you can tell me what it is that you want, so that you may allow me to wait for my father in peace."

Bay's thin mouth curled into a grin, but this time it did not quite reach his eyes. "You not the first Dwarven folk I've seen in these last days."

"And I don't imagine my folk are so rare, considering our close proximity to the Blue Mountains and our like for this village," said Riva quickly.

"Perhaps not. I simply wished to know where you and your father were bound."

Riva narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "Why would such information be of interest to you?"

The man shrugged unconcernedly. "I am bound east and wished to find some companions to make the journey with me. I thought you and your father looked able enough."

"Surely a man of your obvious experience would be able to make the journey alone?" she asked him, and though she attempted to pitch her voice innocently, the man heard the bite of rebuke just the same.

"Indeed; I've made the journey through the Lone Lands and over the Misty Mountains many times with no company aside from my own. But I am no longer the young man I was, and in these times it is prudent to seek company wherever it can be found. If nothing else, I am a prudent man."

Riva crossed her arms stoutly over her chest, and fixed the man with the best imitation of her mother's stern glare that she could muster. "You are not nearly as old as you claim. If you have a mind to seek my father and I as company east, I am sure you knew you would have to speak to him first. And let me warn you; my father is far more fearsome than I, and he is even less inclined to humor strangers."

"I will do so, Sudri," said Bay, and he swept into a grand bow. "I imagine I'll have even greater luck with him, now that you've confirmed you are also bound east."

She realized that she'd inadvertently confirmed their direction to this stranger, and with a furious snap, she ground her teeth together. "You tricked me," she hissed, so angry that the bar shivered around this suddenly hateful man, grinning down at her like a fool. How well she loved tricking idiots, and yet this horrible creature had done the same to her with ease! She resolved to hate him all her days.

"Please don't be angry," said Bay, magnanimous in victory. "You were a stout, clever opponent."

"How well do you think you'll convince my m-father if I tell him you're a hateful liar with ill intent?" she snapped before mashing her lips together, for in her fury she had nearly given her mother up as a woman, and that slip was far more unforgivable.

"I imagine I'll find a way," said Bay. "I do have a way with words."

She thought of Bofur, who weaved stories like silk, and soothed her darkest fears with bright words that lit her world, and the retort bubbled from her tongue before she could bite it back. "You have a way with words like a your kind have a way with smithing - rudimentary compared to the skill of others. Now leave me be!"

He bowed again. "I will trouble you no more. Perhaps after we've pooled our companies and resources, you and I will make our peace."

"Hold your breath for such a thing, why don't you, and be sure to choke on it!" she snapped.

But the man named Bay only laughed, and with that he slung his longbow across his back and stepped out into the cold night beyond like he hadn't a single care in the world. And though he cut an impressive figure against the darkness, she resolved to hate him until the day she died, for if there was one thing she could not abide, it was being outsmarted.

* * *

Bilbo had always taken for granted that he was small and light on his feet, but after this terrible day, he pledged to lift up a prayer of thanks on the hour for these gifts, for they had quite possibly saved him. While the goblins led the dwarves away, jabbing their crude weapons into the backs of his allies, Bilbo had fallen and rolled to the side to avoid being trampled. He expected to be hit and abused and skinned alive for having the temerity to do such a thing, but the goblins had not even noticed his disappearance.

And now, he was soundly alone. He teetered precariously on the goblin catwalks, clutching his sword between two shaking hands, and craned forward as far as he could, the better to see the direction his allies had gone. But the echoing cries of the goblins bounced off every facet of the cave wall, which made discerning their location impossible. He had lost them.

Shame like he'd never felt was quick on the heels of relief. How well had the Company protected him all these treacherous, horrible weeks, and all he was ever able to muster for them was a foul word here, a muttered aside there. Moments before he had considered abandoning them in the middle of the night to journey back to Rivendell, which was safe and full of music and light. A fine companion he was. The dwarves would be better suited having a warg watch their backs.

Well, what could he possible do against goblins? Those nasty creatures, whose very bodies seemed foul and bladelike, whose razor teeth suggested that they did not bother to cook their meals, and instead ate them raw. Raw …

The Company would be eaten raw! Hacked to bits, passed around - little Ori, brave Kili and devoted Fili, and Bofur . . . patient, good, funny Bofur . . . and Thorin!

Bilbo did not know what to do, but he knew that he could not abandon his allies, not when they needed him, not when they gladly risked themselves to ensure his safety. Though he was terrified, shaking to the very cowardly soles of his feet, he set forward with his sword held point out, with every intention of sticking any goblin that came at him.

There was a wild hiss behind him, and before he could turn something crashed into him, nearly knocking him to the ground, and it was only at the last moment that he caught himself and spun to face his attacker. It was a short, vicious fight. The goblin came at Bilbo with a spear it snatched from the ground, and Bilbo parried his attacks through some mad instinct screaming in his ears, as though by precognition perhaps, or simply the dumb will to live.

The goblin launched himself at Bilbo, latching its foul legs around his middle, yanking at his hair, digging into his flesh with its rotten nails. It let out a cry in whatever language it spoke, and only with a great cry himself did Bilbo heave the goblin off his back, gasping when the goblin gashed the side of his face as it went. But the goblin was not deterred; it grabbed Bilbo again, and this time the pair of them pitched off the precarious catwalk and into the cruel depths below, from where Bilbo knew as he fell that there would be no escape.


	22. Chapter 22

Rikke was not much inclined to waste time in awe over providence or, rather, the dumb luck involved in a coincidence, but there was no denying that fortune smiled on the pair of them; she and her thrice-blessed daughter. Their journey east had been without incident, and thus far no one recognized that they were anything more than the average dwarven traveler: hardy, businesslike, male.

Their accommodations at the Prancing Pony were far from luxurious, but Rikke had a vague idea of what waited for them in the wilderness of their journey east, and this was likely their last chance to sleep in a bed not made of pine and grass, with blankets and pillows made of down that smelled faintly of soap, with a roof over their heads. The room was miniscule – she could nearly brush either wall with her outstretched fingers – but it would do for this night and the next. It would be a fine farewell to the civilized world.

Riva plopped onto the bed with a sigh, hugging her legs to her chest. "They didn't know us for what we are," she said in a conspiratorial whisper. "They saw only what they wanted."

"That is the way of Men," Rikke said heavily. "And of most folk."

Riva hopped a little as she swung her pack onto her bed, "Hiding in plain sight, relying on illusion rather than outright darkness!" she whispered. "It's thrilling! I never thought that our deception would be so satisfying!"

"Why wouldn't you? Given your proclivity to such matters," Rikke said with a bit of bite. For her part, her daughter did not seem to hear her, consumed as she was by her pride at having fooled the world on the subject of her identity. And though Rikke was cold and filled with worry, she was not so far removed from her daughter that she could not allow Riva the victory.

"Is the world much like you remember from your adventures?" Riva said, whipping off her tunic and wiggling into her sleep shirt so quickly that her shorn hair stuck out in charming tufts.

Rikke considered. When she had been young, the world was wide, and the vastness of it all gave her the feeling of freedom and flight– how the air had been bracing and quick, and how the sky above her seemed never to end, framed by craggy mountains and the feathery tops of trees. She had been young and in love with her cleverness, smugly pleased with the folly of those she'd escaped. Now, each dark corner whispered of danger, and the open sky was less a gift and more a portent of trouble, formless and shifting.

"The world is darker than I remember," she said finally, easing herself onto the bed and sighing a little as her aching feet gave a twinge of relief.

Riva paused, her hands frozen in their excited dance. "Darker?"

"Aye. These are odd times. Odd folk about – didn't you notice? An unkind look to the passer-by; he's less likely to tip his hat to a traveler and more likely to speed along into the dark, to whatever foul purpose consumes him. I counted five suspicious folk in the inn alone." Rikke fixed her daughter with a stern look. "If ever you need to keep your blade close, this is the time and place for it."

"But we won't stay long in Bree," Riva said slowly. "We only need to pass through."

"Indeed we will pass through, and pass into the wilderness, where there are many miles of untamed land, full of dark corners and darker threats." Rikke took stock of her daughter's stunned expression, her eyes that had become hooded with worry. "This is no jaunt down the mountainside to cities of menfolk. We will need to be cunning and quick, and quiet most of all."

"Or we will be killed."

Rikke did not make a habit of blunting the truth as she saw it, not even for her daughter, the blood of her own blood, who she loved more than gold or comfort or indeed her own life. "Aye," she said softly. "I tell you this not to frighten you, but to warn you. We are dwarves; of all folk in this world, in our hearts beats the blood of warriors. From merchant to prince, miner to master, and all manner of craftsmen. We do not turn away from struggle."

And her daughter did not cower or shudder in fear, but instead something seemed to steel in her; a slow alchemy that transformed her from child to adult, until the daughter looked up at her was as aged as she herself. "I am not afraid," said Riva in a steady voice. "And if I am, I won't let it ruin me."

"Indeed, that is all we can do," Rikke said, and she was more proud of her daughter in that moment that in any other.

They did not speak again for a long while; instead, Riva set about arranging the bedding the way she preferred – not straight and narrow, but bunched around her body like a nest, with only her small face peeking out from the opening. Only when she'd settled did she break the silence. "Is Bofur well, do you think?"

Rikke did not answer. There existed a fine line between truth and despair, and she often found herself teetering over the darker edge. She entertained contingencies and ruminated over the ways a beautiful thing could sour because experience had taught her to view life in such a way. But Bofur saw the world in terms of light; he'd set out certain and convinced that he would see the end of his journey, and he would find for them a home, a place to live as they wished. He'd known – he'd  _believed._  At this moment, she envied her fool for it.

"I hope so," said Rikke finally, her hand skimming her belly.

"He is," Riva said, decisive. "He'll be keeping Thorin's Company light on their feet with his tales."

"They're surely eating well with Bombur to cook for them," Rikke said, smiling.

"Aye! How many toys do you reckon Bifur and Bofur have made since they set out? At least a dozen."

Rikke did not say that there would likely be little time for such frivolities, for if she knew her toymaker, she knew that his anxious hands would whittle any matter of things in the idle times spent huddled round the fire. A memory of such a scene came to her, then – Bofur, feet propped on the table, carving almost unconsciously as he spun a story featuring the character to whom he gave shape between his hands – and it was so beloved and tender that she felt the heart go out of her. "At the least," she said faintly.

"What do you think he's doing right now?" Riva asked, hugging her knees to her chest and peering owlishly from her nest of blankets.

"Whatever it is, he is likely to be wearing a grin, no matter what fills his heart," Rikke said.

* * *

Bofur had nursed a long curiosity for the Misty Mountains. He was not so much an adventurous dwarf – no more so than any other, he'd expect – but being a tale teller he cultivated interest in all the corners of the world, for he knew that if he wanted to tell a convincing yarn he should at least to speak of the land with some authority. Being affable and light of heart, he surveyed the goblin tunnels with fear indeed, but also with interest. This was certainly another way to make a life in the mountains.

Not one that he'd choose, if given a choice. All these unstable catwalks and bridges! The feel of stone beneath one's feet was altogether more comfortable and solid than wood bound together by twine and hair. And nary a guardrail to be found anywhere! Suppose one was walking along, contemplating his state in life, when he took a bad step and toppled over – here, there'd be nothing to desperately grab at before he met his fate at the bottom of the cavern.

Abruptly, he remembered that no one had seen Bilbo since the confusion during their capture, and a wave of panicked unease filled him, thick enough that it was nearly a physical sensation. Hobbits were not nearly as hardy as the dwarves; a dwarf could take a deadfall or three, not to mention the innumerable thrashings at the hands of a bar scuffle in his life, but Bilbo was cut from altogether a different cloth.

He and his comrades waited on the catwalks while their goblin captors deliberated over what to do with them. At the moment, they sufficed with jabbering and shoving at them in equal turns, poking at them with sharp, bony fingers, and baring their horrible teeth.

Fíli and Kíli watched the goblins deliberate, and their hands uniformly strayed to their sides, where only moments before weapons had been strapped fast. "We could make a break for it while they argue," Fíli muttered under his breath.

"And go where? Back the way we came?" hissed Dori hysterically.

"Anything's better than waiting around for them to eat us!" Kíli shot back.

"Lads, come on," Bofur said. "Best we not make their job easy and defeat ourselves, aye?"

So they waited in silence – for an opening, as the princelings desired, or for blind fate to come along and save them, as Dori seemed to prefer. Bofur made no bones about his skills – he was a miner, a toymaker, and a tale teller – and his knowledge of strategy and tactics was woeful at best; he knew as much as it took to tell a convincing story and no more. But Thorin – King Under the Mountain and rightful ruler of Erebor – had cut his teeth on battle from an early age. He'd see them through this, for he'd seen them through every other foul thing on their journey so far.

As for Bofur, he inhabited different times. He thought of a song of the wandering menfolk of the west, the melody now sweet and bitter in equal turns:

 _Johnny Todd came back from warring,_  
Sailing o'er the ocean wide,  
But he found that his fair and false one  
Was another warrior's bride.

_All young men who go a-sailing_   
_Or to fight the foreign foe,_   
_Don't you leave your love like Johnny,_   
_Marry her before you go._

Rikke was no false one, unless one counted her loyalty to her long-dead husband, and Bofur was not inclined to do so. Where the song suggested bitterness and fear, to Bofur its tone was wistful. If only he'd been able to marry her before he'd gone. If only he'd had the freedom.

He thought of her, as he often did: Rikke by the fire, mending clothing, darning socks; Rikke, with her hands moving as they might have at the forge, a ghostly dance beautiful and sad all at once; Rikke, with a smile that managed still to be strong as wet-cut steel, and oftentimes still half a frown. He missed her more than he could say, more than he'd ever be capable of saying.

* * *

_Finally, they rest. She has undone her hair so that it is strewn about, half covering her body like a shift made of silk. He is unable to stop touching it, unable to stop looking at her. He fears that if he closes his eyes she will fade, and he will wake in front of his own fire, reeling from the beauty of the dream, heartsick that it was nothing more._

_Somehow she seems to know his thoughts. "I'm not going to disappear," she says, smiling a little as his hands curl in her auburn hair._

_"Can you promise?"_

_"As well as you could promise me the same," she says, and only then does she open her eyes. "You'll worry me bald."_

_"There's a tragedy," he laughs._

_They don't speak for a long while, but neither do they sleep. Instead she studies him as he makes a study of her, and though they are clothed it is intimate in a way that he has never known, and that he will never know again. He has never seen such a look in a person's eye – she watches him with a total absence of mistrust or expectation. They are two, and yet one._

_She speaks after many hours. "What happens to the fierce woman and the fool?"_

_And he cannot keep from laughing. "Which ones?"_

_She looks at him wonderingly. "What?"_

_"I only mean that all of my stories feature some incarnation of the fierce lady and her fool these days; the wayward princess and her bard, the woman of the mountain and the man whose feet did not touch the ground, the warrior and her the man who kept her name. Which do you mean to know of?"_

_She smiles her half smile. "I confess I had taken to thinking of them as different facets of the same characters. I would know what happens to them, for I've grown fond … especially of the fool."_

_"I imagine he'd be pleased to know this."_

_"Indeed. Don't keep me in suspense."_

_So he considers the story: the way it must be, juxtaposed with the way he wants. "They speak different languages at first. She is fond of the literal, and he of exaggeration." He smiles. "There are false starts. And then, a journey."_

* * *

The Company did not have to wait long, for soon a disturbance down the catwalk caught their attention. Bofur quickly saw that it was a procession of sorts – a dozen or so goblins cavorting around an ambling blob of flesh that Bofur did not immediately realize was a flesh and blood creature. But as it drew closer, he saw that it was no sack of fat; it was a goblin, and by far the most hideous creature any of them had ever seen before. Wobbling and immense, its skin was mottled with boils and open sores, and its massive neck swung from under its chin, which trembled as it sang coarse songs in a throaty, bullfrog croak. On its misshapen head was perched a crown of bone. Even Thorin, being far and away the most well-traveled and experienced among them, could not keep from gaping at the creature.

"Well, well," roared the Goblin King. "Dwarves in my mountain. A more delicious surprise there never was!"

"I knew it!" hissed Kíli miserably. "They're going to eat us!"

"It's the trolls all over again," Dori moaned.

"Quiet," Thorin snapped. To the Goblin King, he said: "I was unaware that these mountains belonged to you,  _my lord."_ The title dripped with derision.

"What cheek!" the Goblin King crowed, his jowls wobbling. "Delicious. But no – I imagine what you don't know could fill these halls, Thorin Oakenshield."

"But you know me," said Thorin stoutly. "And I take that you know of me. You must know what happens to my enemies."

It was a bold bluff, and unfortunately the Goblin King recognized it as such. "You – unarmed and unmanned – dare to threaten me in my own kingdom!" he howled, and Bofur could not tell immediately if it was with laughter or outrage. "I ought to kill you now and suck the marrow from your bones! Doubtless it'd be bitter as you are."

"Then spare yourself the unpleasant meal and let us pass," said Thorin.

"Oh, I wouldn't – not even if I wanted to. You see, Thorin Oakenshield, you have a price on your head, and it's a price I very much would like to collect."

Thorin seemed to have reached some internal threshold – he could very easily offer to double whatever price was on his head, for the wealth of Erebor was great – yet in him a battle raged. Part of him was desperate to see his homeland, to claim it as his own after so many years wandering without a place, to carve out a place for those that followed him. This part battled mightily with the part of him that would rather choke than bargain with such foul creatures.

"I care little of your schemes," Thorin snapped.

"But you should! Oh, you should. At least, you will when he comes for you. I've heard that his forces have hounded you since you took your first steps east – indeed, since you took your first steps from that burning hole in the mountain you call a kingdom; fitting that they should be the ones to end it now!"

"Speak plainly!" Thorin shouted. "Of whom do you speak?"

"Why, the Pale Orc, of course," the Goblin King sneered delightedly. "And I hear he is rather put out with you for that business at Dimrill Dale."

None of the dwarves spoke – indeed, they all looked on their leader with equal expressions of pain, for all remembered or had heard tell of the Battle of Azanulbizar and the brutal deaths of Thror and Frerin – Thorin's own kin.

"You lie," Thorin breathed.

"Believe that if you must; the Pale Orc will come and kill you lot the same," said the Goblin King.

"He will try!" shouted Thorin, who had broken past that internal barrier; he looked on his foe with fury that was half-mad, desperate as a last gasp. "As will you, but tell me; when last did you meet with the fury of the dwarves?"

"Far too long ago," said the Goblin King. "Dwarf flesh is a delightful treat; bitter, unyielding, as delicious as a challenge as it is a meal."

"A challenge, indeed! If only we could say the same about you and your ilk!"

The jovial manner faded from the Goblin King, replaced by some icy hatred. "You speak to the King of these mountains, dwarven wretch."

"I see only one wretch here!" snapped Thorin.

Bofur watched his king with a sinking heart. They were unarmed, and while the skill of his king and companions was great, he did not think they would fare so well outnumbered and outmanned as they were. Perhaps he should have grown accustomed to the proximity and likelihood of an untimely death – he should have expected it as the probably end of this mad venture. Indeed; Rikke had, as she'd been only too right to tell him. But he'd hoped. He'd believed.

The goblins howled, and their King thrashed furiously, his great rolls of fat rippling as he swung his mighty arms round and round. "The Pale Orc wants you for himself, but I'm sure he'll suffice for your corpses!"

The Company pulled close instinctively – they would not show their foes their backs, for if they were to die here they would do so as warriors: as dwarves of Erebor. As for Bofur, he thought of Rikke and Riva, safe in Ered Luin, perhaps picking apart a meager dinner, speaking in low voices. He thought of the warmth of their home with a wistful, wanting heart; what he'd give to be among them. But even now, with death at the hands of enraged goblins looking him straight in the eye, he had faith. He believed - stupidly, desperately – that he would reach his mountain, he would see it with his own eyes, and it would not be the stuff of dreams but solid rock beneath his feet. He believed this, and therefore he knew it. So would Rikke, someday.

And just as the goblins broke rank and rushed them, a mighty light filled the cavern, not pale and white like starlight above, but the blinding flash of the sun. The light swept the goblins aside and left them stunned and sprawled on their backsides, gasping for breath, willing their stalled hearts to beat. And through the following darkness, Bofur saw the outline of a pointed hat, a firm hand clutching a well-known sword, and a wizard's staff bearing the light of his kind.

And the figure spoke, and he spoke with the voice of Gandalf: " _Run!"_

* * *

Rikke conducted her business in Bree as quickly as she was able, for the lands of menfolk made her understandably wary. She led her pony through the wide streets, laden with trinkets and heirlooms that had survived each similar purge over the years. But where she was going she would have no need of them, and if in fact they did reach Erebor, likely there were still treasures with her family's mark strewn about. The loss of these things did not trouble her as it might have a more family minded dwarf; in actuality, she was glad to be shot of them.

For they were not merely things; they were reminders. This plate was no plate, but a prop amid many in one of her darker memories – a loathesome husband, spitting chunks of food in his fury, his hand raised. The dresses she had worn as a lord's daughter, sitting straight with soft hands folded in her lap, head bowed.

She sold the last of her things for fair coin, for the menfolk of Bree had a love of dwarvish crafts, and the Hobbit women fawned eagerly over the fine clothing of her former life. "What pretty things!" one said. "And so exotic! How did you come by them?"

Rikke had the lie primed and ready, as distasteful as it was. "They were my wife's," she said, her voice low and trembling with imagined grief. "I'd never part with them normally, but I've fallen on hard times, you see." She looked up from under her lashes at the Hobbits. "Oh, but they'd look fine on you lot."

"You poor dear!" the Hobbit ladies cried, clearly moved to pity by the picture Rikke struck. And Rikke may not have had the inclination to lies, but she surely had the proclivity for it, borne of many years as a serving wench in a tavern, and before as a woman smith among men. She inclined her head as the Hobbits dug through their coin purses for her asking price.

"You are truly kind," said Rikke, bowing low. That, at the least, was no lie.

She took her newly earned gold and was grateful, for they had given her the means to supply her dangerous journey east. She set about the market with a practiced eye, and she would have made short work of her purchasing too if a stranger had not chosen that moment to accost her.

"Fine work, that," he said as he sidled up to her, fixing her with what she was sure he thought to be a winning grin. He was tall for a man, rangy as if he made a living more easily in the wild. A fierce scar cut across his clever, angular face, and his odd eyes belied his otherwise obvious youth.

"Excuse me?" said Rikke.

"Your performance with those hobbits," said the stranger. "Please, good dwarf. I know a lie when I hear one, no matter how convincingly conveyed."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," said Rikke coldly. The stranger had a clever way of speaking, and her nature afforded immediate suspicion to smooth-talkers and tale tellers. What irony, then, that she had fallen in love with one. But Bofur's stories and lies were a well-meaning kind, and she did not get the same feeling from this stranger.

"Ah, of course. Forgive me, Nordri of Ered Luin," said the stranger. "And forgive my familiarity. Your son spoke highly you."

"You have me at a disadvantage," Rikke said wryly. Her suspicion deepened; Riva would not have given up their names willingly, and if her clever daughter had been so handily outsmarted by this stranger, he was clearly someone to watch.

The stranger sunk into a bow that might have been sincere. "I am Bay, of Laketown. A pleasure."

"Indeed. What do you want, Bay of Laketown?"

"I would first like to offer my apologies. I made your son's acquaintance last evening, and fear I did not leave a favorable impression."

"He made no mention of you, so perhaps you left no impression at all," Rikke said coolly. "However my opinion of you lessens the longer you dance around what you want."

"Ah – straight and direct, just like a dwarf!" laughed Bay, but Rikke saw it his eyes had grown uneasy. "I heard from your son that you have a mind to journey east. I thought we might do so as a company."

"We've no need of company," said Rikke, shouldering her pack and turning to leave.

"Haven't you? The lands between Bree and Laketown are filled with many dangers. Surely our chances of reaching the east would improve if we did so together," said Bay, and there was no mistaking the distinctly worried tone in the man's voice.

Rikke turned to face him. "You sound fearful, Bay of Laketown. If your fear is truly so great, perhaps it's best if you remain here. Bree is a fine place for a man to make a living."

"Without going into the tedious details, that is no option for me," said Bay lightly. "Besides, I am Bay of Laketown. I miss my home, and it is time I return. I thought I might best do so with a pair of skilled dwarves at my back,"

"We are not hirelings," Rikke snarled. "Nor mercenaries. Scatter a few bits at the Pony and you'll garner better results."

"Please, wait-"

Rikke did not let him finish. She drew close, her hand closing on the hilt of the blade at her waist. "And know this, Bay of Laketown: If you approach my son again, I will cut your throat. Now leave me be!"

And with that, she turned and made her way down the main thoroughfare of Bree, leaving Bay of Laketown standing stricken in her wake.


	23. Chapter 23

_Bofur sits at Rikke's table with pipe in hand. From the bowl, glimmering ashes waft tendrils of smoke that curl insubstantially in the air, creating a veil between them. And through that veil of smoke, Rikke appears to him to be more like a dream than a flesh and blood woman; the lines of her insubstantial, the hard flint of her eyes subdued. It is late and they both have much to do the next day, but he cannot bring himself to leave – not now, not after so little time. His fingers drum on his thighs, and across the table Rikke smiles._

_They are restless in this halfway hour. It is only the third night they've stolen together, and it is precious and new still._

" _Why do you look at me in such a way?" she asks._

_He shakes his head, embarrassed at his folly yet unwilling to lie. "Sometimes I can hardly believe you are real."_

" _Clearly I am, as I've said before" she says, amused. "What manner of fancy has misled you on the matter this time?"_

" _You speak as if I am always so ridiculous."_

" _I do," she says, a devious light in her eye._

" _Aye, say no more," he laughs. "It's just a thought that came to me, as they like to do this early in the morning; you sitting there, half-rising from the smoke, and undefined, the way I'd seen you in my dreams, before you'd welcomed me." He clears his throat, suddenly uncomfortable, and possessed with the feeling that he'd admitted too much._

" _To my bed?" she asks him, her tone wicked._

_His answer sticks in his throat, and he dislodges it only after much effort. "Aye, just so." After a moment's reconsideration, he adds: "To your life."_

_She waves away the smoke, and he sees a flash of that steel he loved so well – half formed, a glimpse of sunlight through clouds. Firmly, she takes his hands and presses her fingers into his palm before squeezing. "There, you see?" she tells him, and the light is alive in her voice; she is as serious and resolute as always, every bit the fierce woman he'd had no choice in loving. "Would an apparition possess flesh and blood, and be so solid to touch?"_

" _If one could manage such a thing, it'd be you that did so."_

_She squeezes his hand again. "You believe I am far more than I truly am."_

" _Aye, perhaps," Bofur allows for a moment, grinning. "Or likely you don't see yourself the way you are."_

_When faced with similar praise, Bofur is given to passing it off with a jape or light word, but Rikke frowns instead, a wrinkle forming between her fine brows, and the sight of it is so hopelessly endearing that for a moment Bofur cannot speak or formulate a cogent thought; he can only stare, which caused her frown to deepen. "I don't know that I can allow you to carry on with such a wrong-headed notion."_

" _Oh, aye? Now you know my frustration."_

" _Frustration?"_

" _When you carelessly insist that I am more than a coward or a fool, that I am more than I've always known myself to be. It is less a compliment and more a challenge to everything I've taken for granted about the subject of my character. Not many have the fortitude to survive such a blow to their essential truths."_

" _And it is essential to your well-being to believe you are a coward and a fool?"_

" _Aye, it is. Of course! I have no illusions, so I'm able to conjure them for others. With my stories, you know," he explains expansively, leaning back and slowly puffing his pipe. "And here you thoughtlessly insist on infecting me with them. Ah Bofur, you're no coward and fool; instead the heart of a lion beats in you! What delirious nonsense!"_

_The wrinkle between her brows deepens. "Now I know you are making light of me."_

" _Oh, my lady, never. I would not dare."_

_And he can no longer contain himself. He leans close and gently smooths away that wrinkle with his thumb before bringing his hand to her cheek. Her face is warm beneath his fingers, and when she looks up and meets his eyes the room is suddenly airless and he can't breathe, he can only stare – frozen and struck dumb, transfixed by her beauty._

" _Have I really deprived you of your stories?" she asks him quietly._

" _No," he tells her. "Never."_

" _Are you sure? It's been days since you last told one," she says, and he sees that the flint in her gaze has gone, and now she only looks lost, as if she has broken something precious. He cannot stand to see it._

" _Nothing could stop me from telling my foolish stories," he says softly. "Not even you."_

_And she is not insulted by this; indeed, her lips curl into a shape that might soon grow to be a smile. "Truly?"_

_Now, he can breathe. "I'll tell you a story every day of my life, if you want. Two if you're kind."_

" _Is that so?" And then she does smile, and it is like the sun._

_He doesn't reply to this. Instead, he begins: "Once, there was a child made of smoke and bone._

" _He did not come to be as most dwarven children do – with intention and purpose and hope. He was first a formless, shifting apparition, no more than a dream in the furthest corner of his parents' thoughts. Less than even a dream, even, for they had no thought or hope for children, and even less regard for the other. The man was a wandering sort, and the woman was solid and unyielding as the stone of the mountain."_

" _How could such opposite people tolerate each other long enough to make a child?" Rikke wonders aloud._

" _Very carefully," he tells her. "And after many years. As children themselves, they had grown up together in the same village as desperate rivals. They hated each other with passion that few in this life ever come to know. In the mornings the boy would lie in wait until the girl walked past, and then wrestle her to the ground, smearing dirt in her hair. And she would retaliate ferociously, tearing out clumps of his hair, biting whatever part of his body was closest. It would often take multiple adults to separate them. And as they grew into adulthood, that hatred shifted and changed, became something less fueled by anger and more by fascination, which was tempered by disgust that their childhood rival should grow to take such a shape in their life."_

_And to his delight, Rikke smiles again. "I've heard it said that love and hate are not opposites, but instead oppose indifference."_

" _Aye, just so." Bofur sets his pipe on the table and lays his palms flat, leaning close enough that he can sense her response to the story in the air. It strikes him in this moment how differently he tells stories in Rikke's company; rather than keeping himself at a distance, reclining easily and smoking until he is half hidden, he emerges from the shell and closes the distance. He cannot bear it._

" _When they reached adulthood, the man set out and the woman set down roots. He wandered and she remained, and it was many years later when the man's long path brought them together again. They had each lived weary lives comprised of many broken pieces, and that weariness was great enough to be made manifest. The woman shouldered it all and let her bitterness root her, and the man decided that since the world had given him nothing, so would he eschew worldly matters. And as you would expect, their opposite natures created nothing but strife at first._

" _Yet between them still was that fascination, which even years of bitterness could not touch. They sat across each other one night, much the way you and I are sitting now – with only a breath's space between them. 'I had forgotten you,' the woman insisted, trying to wound him, as was their custom. 'I could not have cared less about you.' But the man did not respond in kind. Instead he took her hands. 'I have hated you,' he admitted, 'but I never forgot you.' And he could have no way of knowing, being that any words exchanged between them were draped in enough half-truths and lies to be functionally meaningless, but for the woman it was as if he'd known that her bitterness stemmed from fear, that her insistence on laying down roots was to ward off the dread that she might be forgotten, that he would pass away, and it would be as if she had never existed at all._

" _And it was an easy thing to give into passion, then."_

_He can't be exactly sure, as the candle between them gutters, sending flickering shadows chasing over the walls and the planes of her face, but he almost believes that Rikke's cheeks darken._

" _When the woman found herself with child, at first she was furious, and in her bitterness, the truth of the matter corrupted into hurt. Instead of an honest appeal, she saw his words that night as manipulative – a chance for him to get what he wanted from her before he resumed his wandering. She had no way of knowing, just as he'd had no way of knowing her own truths, that this time the man fled because he was afraid of what he'd wrought, and of what he'd admitted. He was afraid of letting go of a lifetime of bitterness and anger, because it was all that propelled him through the world. He was afraid of facing the woman after having confessed such an essential truth, after revealing the small, hurt core of himself. He no longer wandered, but fled._

" _And the woman was faced with a choice, as her belly swelled with the life they had made, that child of smoke and bone, insubstantial, yet already so defined. She could remain in bitterness, and bring this child to the world as a shriveled thorn, and infect it with the dissatisfaction she'd known all her life. Or, she could shed the lies and half-truths and fears, and admit to the man what he'd admitted to her. And in that moment, she decided. She stood, and the effort of doing so nearly defeated her then. She shucked off the roots that had grown around her, that bound her to that place of darkness. She slung a cloak over her shoulders and pushed out into the wild places of the world, not wandering or fleeing, but searching. She brought nothing but her own desire._

" _She searched for many long months, through blistering sun and furious storms. She searched forests and mountains and seas of grassland as far as the eye could see. She searched until she could hardly move from the pain of each step, as that child of smoke and bone stirred beneath her heart. She searched because the wandering man had already made his truth plain to her, and now it was time to make her truth plain to him._

" _She found him on the edge of the world, his back to all they had known, hands outstretched to the misty void. She saw in the tense lines of his back that he contemplated more permanent wandering, beyond all life and love, and all they had ever known. She spoke then, the only word she could move past her broken lips: 'Wait.' The wandering man spun and saw her, and even half-veiled in mist the swell of her belly was plain, as was the pain in her eyes. Before he could speak, she said: 'I have lied to you all my life. I had not forgotten you, and I would not if you carried out your purpose here.' The wandering man took one step toward the bitter woman, hardly daring to believe the words she spoke, even as they carried the ring of truth; unadorned and bare. 'I have not hated you,' he admitted at last, the last of his lies thrown to the misty void. 'And I would have there be no more hidden truths between us. If you would only have me.'_

" _The woman did not speak, she only took his hand, firm and steady as the mountains so like her nature. And when their child of smoke and bone was born, it came to know two people who had tempered their natures for its sake – the fixed woman who left behind her roots, and the wandering man who stayed."_

_Rikke says nothing. She takes his hand much as the fixed woman had taken the hand of her wandering man on the misty edge of the world, and for those few stolen moments before the day begins, they forsake their roots for the sake of the other. They lay down new roots instead._

* * *

Riva spent her last day in Bree exploring, for she had long nursed a curiosity for the cities of Men, and she figured that Bree was a fine enough place to sate that curiosity. She watched the blacksmiths at their forges, their muscled forearms banding and glistening with sweat and soot as they shaped molten steel into swords. She watched merchants haggle over prices, charming passers-by with fanciful claims regarding their wares. She watched people of all walks of life – farmers and fisherman driving carts full of their labors, midwives and apothecaries, rich and poor. She watched families come and go, fathers with children on their shoulders, laughing as they screeched in delight and wincing when they grabbed fistfuls of hair. She watched, with a heavy heart. She imagined that these fathers told their children stories too, and since it was all those children would ever know, they would never learn to appreciate it the way she had.

The way she should have.

It had been months since that day in spring, when Bofur had said goodbye and set out east with his kin. She had been so full of hurt and hate that should could not see beyond her own perspective. She had hurled vicious words at him, hoping so desperately to wound that perhaps he would reconsider, that he would decide not to leave them and instead remain. Things would stay as they were, perhaps, but he would have been safe. She would not have had to go back to the way things were before he'd come into her life, with his toys and stories, with his fearful brand of courage. She missed him desperately. And she feared that she'd never see him again.

She'd never say so to her mother, not even if prompted. After their conversation the night before, several things had become clear to Riva; there was something wrong with Rikke, and it was related to the mysterious illness she had suffered for the last three months. It made her stomach unsteady and her temperament even more prone to melancholy. Riva noticed it every time she saw the look in her mother's eye achieve a farseeing quality, as if longing to see many miles east, to the paths Bofur took. She wondered – but no. Rikke had said it was impossible, and to stop asking such questions. It couldn't be.

Riva quickly bored of Bree. She had long built up the holdings of Men to be something they were not – fascinating and different, perhaps even exotic. But as far as she could see, Bree was quite a lot like Ered Luin. People worked and gossiped and went about their business. They just did so under sunlight.

With a dejected sigh, she trudged back to the Prancing Pony, intent on a meal and an ale, if she could manage to convince the barman that dwarven children were allowed ales. That was at least one difference she could find between her race and that of Men – they entertained the belief that such things were inappropriate for children. Or perhaps it was merely the obstinate barman possessed with such notions.

The Prancing Pony was uncharacteristically subdued – though Riva did not know how she knew it, she expected that the inn was a popular one, usually filled to the brim with locals laughing and shouting, sloshing beer as they traded barbs over hot food. Yet tonight only a few long faces could be found, each watching a weedy bard sing from his corner a lament matched in beauty only by the pain in each trembling note:

_Oh, a wan cloud was drawn o'er the dim weeping dawn_   
_As to Shannon's side I return'd at last,_   
_And the heart in my breast for the girl I lov'd best_   
_Was beating, ah, beating, how loud and fast!_   
_While the doubts and the fears of the long aching years_   
_Seem'd mingling their voices with the moaning flood:_   
_Till full in my path, like a wild water wraith,_   
_My true love's shadow lamenting stood._

_But the sudden sun kiss'd the cold, cruel mist_   
_Into dancing show'rs of diamond dew,_   
_And the dark flowing stream laugh'd back to his beam,_   
_And the lark soared aloft in the blue;_   
_While no phantom of night but a form of delight_   
_Ran with arms outspread to her darling boy,_   
_And the girl I love best on my wild throbbing breast_   
_Hid her thousand treasures with cry of joy._

"Oi, you're clearing out the place," the barman called, irritated, but the bard only shrugged and strummed a melancholy chord on his lute. Ignoring him, the barman turned to Riva with a smile on his face. "Now, how can I help you, lad?"

"A meal and some ale would be a great help," Riva said hopefully.

"A meal, I can do," said he, and he set about ladling some thick stew into a bowl.

"And the ale," Riva reminded him. "See now, I'm a dwarf, and dwarves need ale like you lot need big open places to walk about."

"Aye, but you're a little dwarf," said the barman. "Just a boy. It wouldn't be right."

Riva heaved an irritated sigh. "Not for  _me,_ you knob head. For my father. As I said, ale is the most important part of a meal for dwarf. You don't intend to deprive him, would you?"

The barman frowned. "Couldn't he get it himself?"

"Aye, I'm sure he's  _able_ to," Riva said as if explaining a difficult concept to a child. If there was one thing she despised, it was being condescended to. "But he's tired, and I'm a dutiful son who tries to help my father whenever I can. Now, would you help me be a dutiful son, or will I have to disappoint my father on your account?"

"Well, that's all right, then," said the barman, and he set about ladling stew into another bowl before pouring some ale into a mug. She slid a few coins across the table, and he handed her the tray with an indulgent smile. "Have a fine evening, little dwarf."

Riva fumed all the way up the stairs, stomping hard enough to make the floor creak.  _You're just a little dwarf,_ the barman had said, as if it were an obvious deficiency, a failing in her essential being.  _Aye, I_ am _little, and a far sight cleverer than you,_ she thought viciously. She wedged the tray against her middle and took a satisfied swing of the ale, sighing as she swallowed. As far as ale went, its quality was only a few steps above pond scum, but the victory of getting what she wanted tempered the foul taste.

She knocked once and pushed into their room to find her mother hunched over a washbasin, her body shuddering hard as she vomited, her pale hands gripping the side of the table. All at once, Riva forgot their ruse – that Rikke was supposed to be Nordri and she Sudri, a father and his son headed east in search of their kin. She shoved the tray aside and rushed to her mother's side. "Mama!" she whispered, her heart in her throat. "Are you-?"

"I'm fine," Rikke whispered. "Shut the door. It'll pass in a moment."

Riva quickly obeyed before huddling next to her mother once again, rubbing her back and pulling her hair out of her face when another wave of nausea overtook her. She felt Rikke's brow for any signs of fever, but aside from the fact that she was currently being violently sick in a washbasin, there seemed to be no other indication of illness. Slowly, Rikke's hand lifted to her stomach, and she held it tenderly, unconsciously. Her eyes closed.

And in one quick flash of insight, Riva knew what affliction had come over her mother.

She waited until Rikke's nausea passed before silently handing her a bowl of stew, watching as Rikke lifted the spoon to her mouth, tasting its contents gingerly. "Too heavy for me," she said weakly. "I'll try it again soon."

"Mama," Riva said, her voice much too sharp to deserve truth. "Why are you sick?"

Instantly, Rikke seemed to hear the odd note in her daughter's voice, for she turned to look at Riva with a penetrating stare, her eyes narrowing as they studied one another. "My stomach is just uneasy these days," she said after a moment. "And I broke my fast with some old bread and cheese."

"I had the same, and I'm not sick," Riva said immediately. "And you've been ill for months. Since before Bofur left, actually."

Silence prevailed. A chorus of laughter sounded from downstairs, but Riva and Rikke did not move or speak. She waited for her mother to confess what both of them knew, what she'd been so stupid not to see sooner; the shape of the truth finally bare between them. It felt like many hours had passed when Rikke finally sighed, closing her eyes. "It seems as if you know already."

"You said it wouldn't happen," Riva accused, her voice trembling. "I asked, and you said it couldn't."

"That is what I believed, until I learned differently," said Rikke wearily.

Riva's thoughts whirled, suddenly full of a future she'd known better than to hope for. Visions of a younger brother or sister in swaddling cloth, then as a small child, toddling along behind her. Holding a tiny hand. Playing together. Telling stories with funny voices, and acting them out with an army of Bofur and Bifur's toys. She suddenly saw her mother and Bofur and the baby – not under the shadow of the Lonely Mountain, but in sunlight. The four of them; a family. She bit her trembling lip hard. "Does Bofur know?"

"No."

Silence. Then: "Did you know, before he left?"

Rikke looked away, her face pale as moonlight. "Yes," she whispered.

"Why didn't you tell him?" Riva demanded. "Why didn't you tell  _me?"_

Rikke shook her head, and for the first time in her life, Riva saw that her mother's eyes were bright. Her hands shook in her lap. She suddenly seemed less like the woman of stone Riva had always known, and more like she felt herself; overwhelmed and lost, and missing Bofur so desperately that it felt like a hard, crushing fist closing around her heart. "I hardly knew what to make of it myself," she said, her voice breaking.

Instantly, Riva's anger evaporated. She crawled across the bed and threw her arms around her mother, holding her tightly. Tears sprung to her eyes as she thought of her long unspoken wish; a  _family._  They would no longer be two, but four – a true father and a little brother or sister to love and protect. To play with and go on adventures with, and yes, to sometimes fight with.

"It's okay," she said, swallowing her tears. A sense of steely purpose overcame her then. "We will find Bofur before anything happens. And I'll protect you. Nothing will happen to you or the baby. No one will ever know of it until we find him. I promise."

And she knew it wasn't in her power to promise such a thing, but in that moment she was consumed by her promise, quickly taking the shape of the most solemn vow she'd ever spoken in her life. Rikke said nothing, but her arms closed tightly around Riva, and there they remained, pressed brow to brow, for a long while.

* * *

Bofur's first sight of the open world was as precious to him as all the riches of the Lonely Mountain; the sunset filtering through the branches of the pine trees, the cold mountain air bracing against his cheek. After the foul-smelling darkness of Goblin Town, and the fear that he would soon be dismembered and eaten alive by the foulest creatures of this world, such simple things as sunlight and wind on his face nearly brought him to tears. He waited until Thorin slowed to a stop before dropping to his knees and pressing his brow to the ground. Instead of tears, he laughed aloud. He was alive. By the stone, he was alive!

Ori clutched his knees, wheezing, tears streaming down his face, and Dwalin patted the lad gently on the back. Fíli and Kíli let out a single whoop of victory, which sent a flock of birds twittering as they shot into the sky. Bombur dropped to his knees beside Bofur, clutching the back of Bofur's coat as he struggled to catch his breath, and Bofur noticed that his hands shook.

"Here now," he said, giving his younger brother a little shake. "You're all right."

Bombur laughed unsteadily, closing his eyes. "Mahal above," he said, his voice shaking. "I saw you fall through the floor, and since then my heart's been going like that." He pounded his fist on his knee at a pace much too fast for a heartbeat.

Bofur patted him on the back; a more caring brother there never was. "I'm all right, too."

They watched Thorin confer quickly with Gandalf, who had perhaps the best timing of anyone alive in Middle Earth, as far as Bofur could tell. They'd been a heartbeat away from a gruesome death at the hands of the Goblin King, and then the next thing he knew, they were running full tilt through the tunnels, fighting with every bit of ferocity they could muster, using whatever weapon they could get their hands on. There'd been no time to think or take stock of this situation, and instead he had operated on instinct.

Abruptly, the relief vanished as he remembered their fall into the goblin tunnels, as he remembered – "Where's Bilbo?!" he said aloud.

It was as if he'd upended a bucket of cold water over everyone's heads. Smiles dropped, brows furrowed, and Thorin spun wildly, searching their ranks as if perhaps Bilbo was hiding behind one of them, perhaps playing a little trick. As if he'd do something so foolish.

Bofur had noticed that Bilbo was nowhere to be found before they'd been lead to the Goblin King. And then, shamefully, fear for his own life had pushed all other thoughts from his mind. As they ran, all he could think of was the light at the end of the tunnel, and how desperately he wanted to see it. Truly he was a fool and a coward many times over, and he had failed his friend more deeply than ever in his miserable life.

"You were not to let him out of your sight!" Gandalf thundered.

Thorin did not address this. Instead he took a step closer, his face etched with strange anger. "I warned you," he hissed. "I warned you, Gandalf. The open world is no place for soft folk who can neither fight nor fend for themselves."

Perhaps it was the memory of his near death on the mountain face, clinging to the edge of the cliff with all possible strength, or the memory of Bilbo drawing his sword, sprinting with the rest of the dwarves, terrified but determined. But Bofur could not abide such slander directed at Bilbo, especially considering he was lost in the mountains, and could no more defend his name than appear out of thin air. Yet before Bofur could speak, he saw the light bend at the edge of his vision, and the next thing he knew Bilbo himself was striding down the mountain, panting hard, one hand at his waistcoat pocket.

"Sorry," he gasped as he drew level with the Company. "Fell behind."

Bofur rushed forward – it was as if the benevolent forces of the world had conspired to answer his wordless anguish. "Bilbo!" he gasped. "We had nearly given you up!"

Bilbo shrugged modestly. "Sorry to have worried you," he said, and after a moment he met Bofur's stare and flashed him a small grin. It was as if their confrontation before had never happened. Bofur was so acutely relieved that all he could do was grip the hobbit's shoulder and give him a little shake.

But Thorin was not so easily put off. "You fell more than behind," he said, advancing on the hobbit. "We had seen neither hide nor hair of you while we were in the mountain. How do you come to be here now?" After a moment's pause, he added : "I heard your words before the goblins sprung their trap. Why return to us, and not the elves?" He spat the word like a curse.

The Company's excited talk gave way to utter silence; not even the birds dared to make a sound. And as Bofur watched, something seemed to come over Bilbo – an odd determination he had recognized during the nights they spent talking over the fire, when he'd realized before his fellows that Bilbo was more than what he seemed. Bilbo did not seem to realize that he stood before the King Under the Mountain, Thorin Oakenshield, one of the finest examples of dwarven personhood alive. He faced Thorin as an equal in that moment, and Bofur knew. They would all see it before long.

"I know you doubt me," Bilbo said quietly. "I'm not like you. I'm not a warrior, or even a burglar. I miss my home, and my garden. I miss my books," he said with a self-effacing smile. "But I said I'd aid you – I signed your contract and committed myself to your quest." He took a breath. "You don't have a home. It was taken from you." He looked up at Thorin with such utter absence of guile that even the great warrior could not find it within himself to glower back. "And I will help you take it back if I can."

And Bofur could not speak. He remembered that dark night on the mountain, where Bilbo had hissed that he and his kind didn't belong anywhere, and it had wounded him. But now, in the fading sunlight, Bilbo Baggins proved to them all what Bofur had known; this was no mere hobbit, content in his soft home. And perhaps hobbits were more than any of them knew.

Thorn lowered his head, humbled, and Bofur could not speak. But he smiled at Bilbo, and Bilbo smiled back. There were many shades to his relief – that he was alive, that his family was alive, that his good friend was alive, that somewhere Rikke and Riva were alive and well, and he would see them again – and under the fading sun, on that mountain side, he savored them all.


End file.
